


The Chronicle

by Zillian



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate History, Early Modern Era, Historical Accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zillian/pseuds/Zillian
Summary: XCOM was not the first protector of humanity - they were only the latest. This is the story of the Chronicler, a simple friar in the early 16th century. When summoned to the Vatican, an encounter with an unknown artifact triggers a series of momentous events, and he becomes pulled into a shadow war that threatens to bring Europe to its knees. Based on Xabiar's XCOM series.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Introduction

* * *

This story is a standalone prequel to Xabiar’s XCOM series and is not needed to read his work to understand this story.

* * *

This story is told from the character’s point of view and do not indicate the Author’s own point of view

* * *

Artwork of the main character can be found at the Xabiarverse Discord server. This artwork is credited to Zerphyrus-Genesis

* * *

_Xabiar’s Note:_ A little while ago, Zillian approached me to see if I was interested in helping him with a story centered around the Chronicler’s origins. It was not something I had really planned or thought about previously, and having someone be willing to explore this is something I’m very thankful for. This is going to be illuminative on certain aspects of the world and history which have not been deeply explored in the main series. I will also say that some of the things that happen will be relevant in Advent Directive in the future. Even if this is a standalone story, it does have larger ramifications on the future. I hope you enjoy it, and will give Zillian your thoughts and feedback.


	2. Awakening

**Dominican Order, Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 1524**

_ This map is fascinating. It was produced in a time when the ancestors believed the world to be flat, and the world floated in the centre of the infinite, not supported by anything. The world had the curious shape of a cylinder with a height one-third of its diameter. The flat top forms the inhabited world which is surrounded by a circular ocean. _

Ansaldo Leonardo de Caramanica, Brother of the Dominican Order, put down the quill and glanced at the map next to his journal. It was only a reconstruction, as the original had been lost to the time, and showed a circular landmass grouped around the Aegean Sea. Europe to the north, Asia to the east, and Africa to the south, each part separated by a mass of water, with the Mediterranean as the biggest in the middle.

He continued to write.

_ Today the known world is much greater. An entirely new continent has been discovered west of the Atlantic Ocean, a mere three decades ago. The Spaniards have just completed the first circumnavigation of the world after a journey of three years and one months across the seven oceans, an expedition they began five years ago. This new discovery has revealed shortcomings in classical knowledge, but it has also opened up new possibilities for our perspective on this world. For, each year, the world has only grown larger. _

He stopped the writing process and let the first thought jump into the next in a long chain of thoughts.  _ Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa had, more than three and a quarter centuries ago, suggested that the Earth revolves around the sun, and that each star was itself a distant sun. The idea itself  _ _ was unprovable _ _. Would someone soon challenge the model of cosmos itself? Promoting the idea that the Earth was not the centrum of the universe? _

_ What wonders of this world would we soon discover? _

Ansaldo’s thought progress was interrupted with a knock on the door. He crossed his simple cell stepping over the table, chair, bed, and chest that were the only furniture in the room. However, each surface of the cell was covered by what Ansaldo would call projects. Antiquities from ancient times, manuscripts with classical knowledge, and the latest works of scientific literature.

He opened the door and peered at his visitor. A young Dominican brother stood outside in simple robes, a letter in hand.

“God bless you, brother. You have received a letter from the Holy See,” he said, and handed it to Ansaldo.

Ansaldo took the letter, studying it. Indeed, it was the seal of His Holiness Clement VII on the letter.

“Thank you, brother. God bless you.”

The brother bowed his head a bit and left. With a quiet crack, Ansaldo broke the seal and read the contents of the letter by the light of a candle.

Interesting.

A summoning sent by one Cardinal Epsiscopo Borgia, asking him to catalogue some unknown artefacts from Constantinople. Why would a Borgia request assistance from the Dominican Order? No matter, this was certainly an opportunity he could not refuse, even if he was willing to defy a request directly from the Holy See.

Ansaldo started to pack for the journey to the Eternal City. An extra set of robes, his journals and some extra quills, a bottle of ink, his set of analytical tools, a few manuscripts and books which could be useful in identifying these artefacts, and, finally, his travel Bible. One which had been crafted by his own hands in his younger years. 

Placing his pack on his back, he exited his room and closed the door behind him. Walking past the Office of the Prior to inform him of his leave before he left the monastery.

He was ready for the journey.

*******

**Pontificia Library, Vatican, Rome, 1524**

Like the first time Ansaldo had visited the Eternal City many years ago, he was still struck by the many ancient buildings and monuments he passed by on the streets of Rome. He imagined how the apostles felt when they first came, at a time when the city’s power was at its peak. 

Today, it was the heart of the Church’s authority and the center of the renaissance. An awakening of art and science after the long and dark medieval age, where progress had stopped since the fall of the Roman Empire. A truly excellent time to be alive. However, Ansaldo was not here to visit the holy sites, hold lectures in universities, or make new discoveries in laboratories.

Instead, Cardinal Episcopo Borgia guided Ansaldo down the halls of the Apostolic Palace, towards the library of the Holy See. The library consisted of four rooms. Two of them were used exclusively for Greek and Latin works. The third room, the Secret Library, was for manuscripts which were not directly available to the many patrons of the Church, including certain precious ones. The last room, the Pontificia Library, contained the Papal archives and registries.

The Cardinal unlocked the door to the last room and handed the key to brother Ansaldo. “You may use this key to access the archive during your stay, son.”

“Thank you, your Eminence.”

With a curt nod, the cardinal marched into the room, Ansaldo closing the door behind them. As expected, the room had several bookcases full of dusty tomes and aging parchments along the wall. A group of worktables devoted to the writing, copying, and illuminating of manuscripts dominated the floor. They were heading towards a collection of various artefacts stocked in a corner of the room.

“As you know, we are building a new basilica after demolishing the old one two decades ago,” the cardinal gestured vaguely around the room. “When the crusaders sacked Constantinople centuries ago, they returned with many artefacts, most of which were entombed in the basilica’s vaults and forgotten about. We rediscovered them during the renovation, and we could not identify them. I am hoping you would assist us in identifying and cataloguing these artefacts.”

“I will do what I can, your Eminence.”

“Very well. I would be in my office, should you need me.” The Cardinal turned and walked out of the archives without another word.

Alone in the archive, the friar stored the key to the on a keyring attached to his belt before looking over the collection. It was not the first time he had been summoned to look over various artefacts. As a learned man, he had seen many true wonders in his time. However, he had also seen an equal share of frauds made by fortune hunters seeking fame and wealth. It was his job to figure out if this so-called ‘Finger of Saint John’ was real at all, and if this strange stuffed animal was just a hybrid of several animal parts and not one legendary creature.

Something among the collection caught his attention. An artefact resting upon a pedestal. The blue sphere rippled with an ambient blue inner light, and the pedestal seemed to be clinging to it. He felt an urge to look at the orb more closely, as it seemed to be glowing brighter on the inside. Its light was deeply hypnotic, and he felt the urge to stay here and stare at it for hours. Was it a crystal? An ornate jewel hewn by a master craftsman? He did not know, only that it required closer examination.

As he walked forward slowly, he began to hear...feel…  _ something _ , just on the edge of his consciousness. He could not be sure if it was his imagination or not, but it was something like barely perceptible whispers and a titanic  _ feeling  _ which he struggled to articulate. The orb seemed to grow brighter as he approached, and, the closer he got, the larger the titanic presence grew.

Something emanated from the blue orb, and it felt  _ old _ .

He tentatively placed his hand on the orb, and found himself unable to let go, as it seemed to latch onto his skin It felt oddly warm, and he watched in muted disbelief, feeling too overwhelmed by the presence to experience the panic he should have felt, as the room with the various artefacts and records faded from his vision, and his surroundings turned to a deep ocean blue, as if he were underwater. Tinted light shone from above, but everywhere he looked, there was nothing but rippling teal and blue.

The scale of the presence expanded to where he felt that he might burst,he felt as though his heart and mind would give out. It was something unimaginably  _ old _ .  _ Ancient _ . He could sense an immovable shadow in the distance of the endless blue abyss. The illumination was blurred, and he could only make out of a shadowy outline of the entity. A being far greater than he could imagine; a shape to embody the titan he felt.

Ansaldo yanked his hand off the orb upon seeing it, and he was suddenly back in the archive. The Orb was not glowing anymore, but remained a faint blue colour, mostly from the reflected light.

The age; the dread he now felt, remained, however, the presence was gone, but the echo remained in his head. That was when he realized something else.

On the edge of his perception, he heard what seemed to be a whisper. Unintelligible, minute, easily ignored if not for the silence of the library. Yet there was no mistaking that he heard it.

And it came from inside his head.

***

**Guest house, Vatican, Rome, 1524**

In the last few days, the whispers had only grown more intense and frequent. It was as if a thousand souls were speaking at once in incomprehensible words, the volume only rising each day. Nor did the voices allow him peaceful rest, leaving him staring at the roof in the darkness, struggling to fall asleep.

It was not only the voices either. There was something else inside him now. A power within him that he could access for brief moments, moments when the prayers to God for forgiveness failed him, candles that blew out when he became too frustrated. Meditation and praying only made the whispers intensify. opening his mind for the beauty of the God only allowed the voices to scream and yell at him.

It was one of these late nights when he decided to put words of his experience to paper. He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.

_ I think I have faced God _

Ansaldo put down his quill and lifted a hand to massage his temple. The whispers and muttering did not give him a moment of peace. The voices were a mix of male and female, younger and older, soft, and firm, a broken chorus of whispers all clamouring for his attention. Sounds that were begging to be understood. Interesting. Maddening.

He continued to write in the journal.

_ I am not entirely sure what happened. The strange blue sphere is obviously otherworldly, not merely the reflected light of a jewel forged by human hands. I have, in my whole career as an antiquarian, never seen such an object, and, yet, I was drawn to it, despite my experience in handling unknown objects. When I touched it, the world faded as if in a dream and I was elsewhere.  _

_ I appeared underwater, but I felt no water and could breathe easily. It was as though there was an invisible box around me, keeping the liquid from crushing me. The vast expanse of this ocean was intimidating, and there was no visible escape from the pale blue prison. _

He dropped the quill and rested his head in his hands. The intensity of the voices inside his head had worsened to a point where he had trouble concentrating.. He persisted and picked up the quill once again.

_ Somewhere in the vast expanse of this ocean, I saw an entity beyond my comprehension. It is like facing the Seraph directly without bursting into flames; a presence which is all-encompassing and overwhelming. In a haste to escape the wrath of God, I lifted my hand from the sphere… _

He gave up. He fled his cell, jogged down the hall, quietly, so as to not to wake the pilgrims and other guests, and stepped outside into the fresh air. The sun had coloured the sky in deep orange and red hue, and the stars were still visible beyond the thin clouds.

_ Maybe touching the orb would make the voices disappear. _

As he walked across Saint Peter’s Square, the volume of the voices began to reduce, falling to the barest whisper when he reached the middle of the square. He stopped,surprised. The whispers and muttering were still there at the edge of consciousness, never completely gone, but they were barely audible. Frowning, he turned around and walked back towards the guest’s quarters.

The volume of the voices rose once more, becoming louder the closer he got to his quarters. Confused, an idea began forming in his mind, and he returned to the middle of the square, where the whispers reduced to almost nothing. An experiment was in order. 

He turned around and walked towards the Apostolic Palace, the residence of His Holiness. The voices intensified, though they were not as powerful as in his quarters. Walking in the direction of the city proper, the noise rose to an unbearable level. He walked back and forth across Saint Peter’s Square, experimenting with the intensity of the voices inside his head.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

He jumped into the air, his heart in his throat. Somehow, he didn’t notice the guard walking up to him. The new commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, Caspar Röist, stood there and waited for an answer with one hand carrying a torch, the other resting on the pommel of his sword.

“I apologise,I was…” Ansaldo paused and tried to figure out an answer. He knew telling someone he heard voices in his head was surely a way to get sent to a mental institution - or worse - have an exorcism performed on him. “…experimenting.” He finished lamely.

Röist lifted an eyebrow and muttered something about scholars and their insane experiments.

“This is past curfew. I would suggest you return to the guest’s quarters. If you want to experiment at this hour, please inform the guard beforehand.”

“I apologise. May God bless you.”

Ansaldo fled the Square and returned to his quarters. He could feel the commander staring at his back the whole way.

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome 1524**

He could not sleep that night, and the morning mass was unbearable. Each praise uttered by the servants of the Church somehow magnified the voices inside his head. After managing to force a piece of bread and butter down his throat, he stumbled into the Vatican Gardens, his travel Bible in hand, hoping to find a secluded, quiet spot.

With a thump, he sat down on a bench in a remote corner of the Gardens. He gazed over the beautiful park. Bushes and flowers bloomed in geometric patterns, organised by the hand of a master gardener. The Gardens had recently been through a major restoration, formed into a great rectangular labyrinth of bushes,framed with pines and cedars, and enclosed by a defensive wall. Monuments, fountains, and shires with Marian images were scattered throughout, with even a few chapels here and there. A beautiful and tranquil place in a world of trouble and chaos.

The intensity and volume of the voices rose and fell at seemingly random intervals as he sat. A group of Cardinals stood not far away, and they produced the loudest noises. He focused on a few people who were walking away from him, and the noise began to fall in tandem. In return, the noise rose as another group of people walked towards him. As he focused on the various people walking around the Gardens, flashes of words, images and feelings were made clearer in his head. A recognisable word here and there, and an intense feeling for a very short moment.

A thought struck him.

Did the voices in his head have a connection to the people around him?

Ansaldo tried to meditate once again. Breathing in and out, clearing his mind of worldly thoughts and pressures, focusing on the Holy Scriptures and God’s promises. 

_ “Blessed is the one… whose delight is in the law of the LORD, and who meditates on his law, day and night.” _

“May these words of my mouth and this meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

_ “Within your temple, o LORD, I meditate on your unfailing love.” _

Finally, he opened his mind to be filled by the beauty and love of his God. Instead, his thoughts were assaulted by a choir of screaming, wailing, and shouting voices. A chorus of unintelligible, tortured souls that demanded his attention, and it was all he could do to make out the odd word or two.

Unable to withstand the onslaught of voices, his meditation collapsed suddenly, the voices still echoing in his head. What had he done wrong? Why did meditation not help? Perhaps he needed to try a different method.

Doing his best to ignore the voices, he thought for a few moments more. If Ansaldo knew his history correctly, there existed a different kind of meditation in some of the eastern pagan faiths. Maybe he could find the answer in the Greek Library?

With that in mind, he began to walk to the Apostolic Palace, voices still plaguing the back of his mind.

***

**Greek Library, Vatican, Rome, 1524**

The Greek library was similar to the Pontifician, though it had fewer workshops, and lacked the ubiquitous aging scrolls. After some hours spent searching the vast library, he found an ancient tome dating back to before the rise of the Mohammedans. Unfortunately, he realized after reading a few pages, the volume was badly translated and heavily biased, to such an extent, in fact, that even  _ he  _ could only shake his head at the exaggeration and hope that he was not wasting his time.

Ansaldo sat on the bench and patiently studied the volume, written by a Greek scholar ignorant of the eastern faiths, over the following days. During this period, he managed to boil the Eastern method of meditation down to roughly ‘repeat a word of prayer to the pagan god, clear your mind and focus on your inner self’. Not very helpful, but at least it was a start. 

Lucky, he had a lifetime of experience in meditation.

Opening his Bible, he sought solace. He leafed through his handmade Holy Scriptures for a few minutes, a frown on his face as he read. As expected, the meditation technique in the Scriptures was about meditating on God’s law, on His word, and on his plan for humanity; filling the mind with entire verses from the Holy Scriptures with the intent of connecting with God. Could that be why he had had trouble meditating lately? When he filled his mind with the light of God, did he unconsciously invite the outside voices into his mind?

Glancing over the ancient tome, he reviewed the words within it. The Eastern technique only focused on repeating a few single words instead of an entire verse. Would chanting a single word over and over help him to focus on his mind? He leafed through the Bible for a suitable word and briefly paused at a possibility. Could he use the word Hallelujah as his focus?

He noted that down.

Emptying your mind? He was doubtful it would help, but he was desperate enough to try it out. He could only stand so many nights of fitful rest or sleeplessness. According to the ancient tome, the goal was to empty one’s mind, connecting to one’s inner self. Could he do that, but connect to God - or in this case - to the voices in his head?

Ansaldo closed the ancient tome, put it aside and picked up his Bible. Walking out of the library, towards one of the chapels at the Gardens, he prepared himself for this next test.

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome 1524**

Ansaldo found a spot in one of the chapels in the Gardens. A small place of worship with only a few servants of the Church present. The voices here were not as loud as in Saint Peter’s Basilica or the Sistine Chapel at the Apostolic Palace.

He closed his eyes, breathing in and out. He cleared his mind of worldly thoughts and pressures. He began uttering hallelujah in single syllables.

“Ha. Le. Lu. Jah.”

Breathing in and out. Focusing on the word. Repeating it more. Emptying his mind.

“Ha. Le. Lu. Jah.”

How long he meditated on the word, he did not know. Days? Hours? Soon, his mind was in a calm and empty state. The voices were still there - but they faded over long minutes, and now were on the edge of his perception. Easy to ignore, despite the silence of the chapel.

Instead of reaching toward God as he was used to, Ansaldo reached for the closest voice and pulled it towards him. Listening to it.

_ May these words of my mouth and this meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, LORD, my Rock, and my Redeemer. _

Ansaldo suddenly let the connection go in surprise and open his eyes. Turning his head to look towards a servant of the Church, who was sitting not far from him. Mumbling the same verse over and over - the one he had heard in his head. He listened again, to be sure. The audible repetition of the phrase was the same, down to the tone and voice.

Ansaldo blinked. Had he just read this man’s thoughts?

Maybe it was just his consciousness tricking him? He tried again. Breathing in and out. Focusing on the word  _ hallelujah _ . Emptying his mind.

With that done, he decided to...focus on another nearby voice and ‘pulled’ it towards him. The result was the same. Another servant of the Church in the chapel repeating a different verse from the Holy Scriptures in his mind.

It had to be a coincidence! He needed to test it further.

Ansaldo stepped outside and found another quiet spot in the Gardens. He sat down, repeating the meditation process, reaching out for the closest voice. Listening to it.

_ Did you hear the latest news from the New World? Six hundred conquistadors managed to overthrow an entire barbarian kingdom. _

_ From what I have heard, they deserved the wrath of God. Sacrificing a thousand savages in an attempt to please their pagan gods? A barbarous practice indeed. _

It was as if a gate had been opened. More words and phrases kept coming in from different sources. He gasped as a flood of images appeared and briefly overwhelmed him. Most were half-formed, vague, and missing details. Ansaldo quickly pulled away, shifting his focus to another voice.

_ Do you think the rising tension between His Holiness and His Imperial Majesty will result in open conflict? _

He managed to catch a thought from this voice. An image of His Imperial Majesty Charles V, resplendent in his gold-rimmed black plate armour, and His Holiness Clement VII in his full papal outfit. The men were in a shouting match,faces red and spittle flying from their mouths.

Ansaldo removed himself from this blasphemous image and focused on another voice.

_ How dare Martin Luther and his movement undermine the authority of the Church. He must be punished for his heretical words. _

He cut off from the voices in his head and withdrew to a state of clear and calm mind. With all of what he had heard...there was only one clear conclusion. These voices… They were not random whispers in his mind. They were  _ people _ , their thoughts, words, and memories. 

And he could listen to them.

He wondered how. He wondered  _ why. _

Why had he been given the power to read minds? Was it happenstance? An accident of fate? A blessing from God? Or something else?

One certain memory demanded his attention. That of the pale blue prison, the endless ocean of nothing.

How could he forget that? The artefact? Would it give him the answer to his newfound power? He had not begun experiencing these whispers until he had touched it. Yes - it  _ must _ have answers.

He left his spot in the Gardens and hurried to Apostolic Palace with single-minded haste, crossing the halls, pushing past priests and friars, and, finally, reaching the Pontificia Library. Fumbling with the key, he opened the door with such quickness that he almost fell into the room.

The strange blue orb was still there in the library, resting on the pedestal. Unlike last time, it only had a faint blue colour from the reflected light of the candles.

With his heart in his throat, he carefully crossed the room, almost afraid God would smite him down at each moment for daring to touch this Orb once more. He placed a hand on the Orb and waited for a reaction.

And waited.

In the end, nothing happened at all.

* * *

To be continued in:

**The Forbidden Book**


	3. The Forbidden Book

**Guesthouse, Vatican, Rome, 1525**

_The Orb is yielding no more secrets. I am at a loss as to how it works. It is clear that I am missing something. In the past months I have come to a realisation: I could have been killed when I stumbled upon it. Instead, it granted me powers, including mind-reading. I have decided to call this ability ‘telepathy’, a combination of the Greek words “tele,” meaning “at a distance” and “path”, meaning “feeling”. “Far feeling,” a suitable definition of this power I now wield._

Ansaldo Leonardo paused and put down the quill. He extended his hand toward a stone he had picked up at the Gardens. With a flick of his wrist, the stone rose, hovering a few inches above the table. A translucent violet distortion, similar to that which appeared above the stones on a hot summer day, had enveloped the stone, keeping it in place. With another movement of his wrist, the stone descended, resting upon the table once more, and the distortion disappeared.

He dipped his quill into the inkwell and continued.

_I have also been granted a second set of powers, which I have chosen to call “telekinesis”, delving once more into Greek, combining the terms for “at a distance” and “movement”. As the name suggests, I can move objects around with but a thought, as if I could comprehend invisible strings, pulling and weaving them together. I am still at a loss as to why I have received these powers - if there is any reason for why this has happened, whatsoever._

_Yet, I fear I am beginning to attract the wrong kind of attention from the Holy See._

_Commander Röist is starting to become suspicious of me. I am not sure, but I have a feeling that he and a small group of his guards know I wield these powers - or at least they suspect. They have also started to subtly observe me lately, always nearby, always conveniently bumping into me during mass and when I eat. At the same time, Cardinal Borgia is starting to request the results of my research into the Orb, but I have no report to deliver to him, other than the supernatural nature of the artefact._

With a sigh, he dropped his quill on the table and massaged his temples. He did not ask for these magical powers, especially not the voices. Of course, their volume was bad in such places as the Guesthouse. This, at least, made sense.

While he was not particularly knowledgeable on the nature of such magicks, as he considered such topics to be superstitious, the idea was not foreign. Many had, over time, claimed they could perform magic and miracles. Indeed, the scriptures themselves described events which could have no source but the supernatural and holy. Was this the truth? The power that they had drawn from? He knew there were books about it. Maybe the Secret Library would provide an answer?

He left his cell and the Guesthouse, crossing Saint Peter’s Square towards the Apostolic Palace. Soon after, he found himself at the office of Cardinal Epsiscopo Borgia. His family was suspected of many crimes, including murder by poisoning, the sale of sacred artefacts, and a number of _objectionable_ sexual activities. 

A thoroughly corrupt and power-hungry family, their name had become the very byword for nepotism.

Unlike Epsiscopo’s late cousin, the wicked Pope Alexander VII, this Borgia man had only a simple secretary job at the Vatican. Maybe his political ambitions were side-lined by the correct Holiness? His Holiness Clement the VII was, after all, a member of the Italian Medici family, an enemy of the Borgias. Why Epsiscopo kept his position at the Vatican, Ansaldo did not know.

However, he was not here to speculate on the reason behind the infighting between the Italian families.

Cardinal Borgia looked up at Ansaldo as he approached, an unspoken question in his eye as he awaited a reason for Ansaldo’s presence.

“Your Eminence,” Ansaldo cleared his throat. “I am requesting access to the Secret Library. It is relevant to my research into the Orb, and I believe I could find answers to the mystery within the Library.”

Borgia folded his hands and studied Ansaldo for a while. 

Then unexpectedly - shockingly - he felt an incursion into his mind. 

It lasted only a short moment before disappearing.

But it had happened.

Instinctively, Ansaldo stiffened; almost completely paralyzed by the implications. It could not be - it must have been his imagination.

“I see,” Cardinal Borgia responded calmly, seemingly unaware of what had happened. “In this case, I will allow you access to the library. If it can help us learn the secrets of this mysterious artefact, then far be it from me to stand in your way.”

He found a blank paper and a quill and wrote something down before handing it over to Ansaldo. The man’s mannerisms had seemingly changed, now almost sly and playful, as though he were a cat, toying with its prey.

“A letter of admission,” he said smoothly, a smile on his lips as he pressed the letter into Ansaldo’s hand. “Deliver it to the librarian and he will give you access.”

“Thank you, your Eminence.”

Before Ansaldo could depart, Cardinal Borgia, unexpectedly, held back the letter, the smile still on his face. “A final request. We have not spoken in detail about your work as of late. I wish to see you within the week. To discuss your progress with the Orb and other artefacts.”

The feeling of foreboding and uncertainty did not leave him as he struggled to maintain a calm facade, even as he _knew_ something was wrong. “As you wish, your Eminence.” He said, fighting down a frown as Borgia finally let go of the letter.

Ansaldo bowed his head at the cardinal and left the office, thoughts of confusion and concern clouding his mind.

***

**The Secret Library, Vatican, Rome, 1525**

Ansaldo could muster no excitement while rummaging through the library. Despite the fact that he was handling truly _ancient_ books, he could not shake his earlier feelings of dread.

What had the foreign incursion into his mind been? He was certain now that he had not imagined it. He could distinguish between the real and imagined at this point, so it could not be a figment of his mind. Was it God who had entered his mind? Something related to the blue abyss? If not, who or what else? Surely it could not have been the Cardinal, could it? Indeed, he was from a family of questionable conduct, but that didn’t imply a connection to the supernatural. Yet, he did not like the coincidence - even less so when it was connected to such a man, who, admittedly, had been largely respectful and accommodating.

He pushed the thoughts aside as he walked to a nearby table with a stack of books, covering everything from witchcraft to occultism. These were forbidden and heretical texts the Church prevented from circulating and polluting the minds of the people. Texts which were, ironically, one of his last hopes for the truth.

He glanced over the first book. _Malleus Maleficarum_ or the “Hammer of Witches.” Written by a German churchman and inquisitor. A treatise on witchcraft. He leafed through it with a lump in his throat, a difficult feeling to suppress, when combined with the circumstances of his own abilities and the knowledge that he was reading something which had been declared so unsafe that it needed to be locked away. 

According to the work, witchcraft had been forbidden for centuries, and that those who believed in such things had been seduced by the Devil in dreams and visions. He mused over the text, looking for any scrap of potential similarities. Was the entity he had felt a Devil? He surely hadn’t formed a contract with the entity – he had simply been gifted with these powers for unknown reasons. Nor did he display signs of such a purported pact, such as the ability to speak in foreign tongues, have knowledge he could not know, or having an aversion to holy symbols - all sure signs of demonic possession.

He put the book to the side with a shake of his head. No answers there. None which explained anything, anyway.

More books were opened, his tired eyes peering over them and finding no further answers. Where did his form of magic come from? Was it from that entity he saw in the blue abyss? Some of the books only spoke of magic spells, obscure tongues, rituals, and the like, but none had suggested that it was a simple effort of will.

Ansaldo did not notice the sun beginning to cast long shadows into the library as he studied, until a voice barked from above, startling him. With his heart in his throat, he looked up, towards the source of the voice. Commander Röist stood at the other end of the table. one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other on the open Malleus Maleficarum, as if he had been leafing through it without Ansaldo noticing him.

The Swiss Guard Commander stared at Ansaldo with hardened eyes, and he could feel a mix of suspicion, hatred, and some puzzlement emanating from the Commander. He had realised recently that he could passively sense the emotions of those around him.

“Why are you looking at these books?” he demanded.

Once again, he had the feeling that the Commander somehow knew he had the strange powers. “Research” Ansaldo responded, his voice surprisingly stable.

There was a long pause, and the Commander seemed to internally come to a decision.

“If you say so.” Commander Röist grunted and closed the book with a snap. “A word of advice, scholar, this witch hunter’s handbook is a useless and inaccurate record of magic, as I consider him to be a fraud. His book may be widely used in the inquisition, but Heinrich Kramer did not know what he wrote of, since he had no experience with _actual_ magic. I would suggest you find other literature to read. However, it is past the closing hour. I would suggest you leave the Library.”

With a nod, he stood and prepared to depart. As he left the library, he once again felt the commander’s eyes burned into his back. “Ansaldo.”

He stopped and turned to see the Commander’s eyes meet his. “I notice that you have a tendency to lose track of time. You may want to move past this habit. You never know when you will need to pay attention to your surroundings.”

Ansaldo gulped, slightly confused, though he sensed no malice from the Commander. “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head once more. “I will remember this.”

He turned and exited the Library as Röist silently watched him leave.

***

**Papal Office, Vatican, Rome, 1525**

Giulio di Giuliano de' Medici, better known as His Holiness Clement VII, looked down upon Saint Peter’s square from the closed balcony door in his office, deep in tormented thought. He had been elected to the office just two years previous, and, already, he faced challenges inherited from his predecessor.

Two of Europe’s most powerful monarchs were engaged in a vast power struggle for a piece of Italian soil. And at what cost? Several thousand faithful had perished during this dynastic struggle for dominance, either as a levy for an army or as a simple peasant whose farm happened to be in the way.

Clement shook his head in despair. Both His Imperial Majesty Charles V and His Majesty Francis I of France demanded he choose a side. An alliance had already been made with Charles by his cousin, his Holiness Leo X, and, as a result, he would be stuck on the side of Charles for the foreseeable future.

However, the imprisonment of Francis in Spain, alongside Charles’ decisive victory in the Battle of Pavia, had shocked him. The new balance of power in Italy had weakened his own position against the powerful Habsburg Monarch. _Charles needs to be driven out of Italy to restore the balance of power in the region,_ he mused. A message to his Imperial Majesty had already been sent to annul this alliance. Other messages had been sent to other Italian princes with the intent to form a coalition against Charles.

Then there was this fuss with His Majesty Henry VIII of England and his so-called ‘Great Matter’. Henry had, of late, become more impatient with his wife’s inability to produce the male heir he desired and wanted to annul his marriage to the now 40-year-old Queen Catherine. Clement shook his head once again in exasperation. According to Henry, this marriage was ‘blighted in the eyes of God’. No, His Majesty was in error in this instance. He would not be misled that easy. The marriage was holy in the eyes of God, and wanting a male heir was not reason enough to annul it.

Unfortunately, he had more trouble on his hands. The heretical scholar Martin Luther had spread his poisoned words with his foul printing contraption, and now the peasants and princes, those traitors to the faith, flocked to his side. This had caused a widespread popular revolt in the Holy Roman Empire, ending with several thousand poorly armed peasants slaughtered in cold blood. The blood of these peasants was on the heretical hands! Had he not written these heretical works; the violence caused by the Peasants’ War would not have occurred.

Clement pinched the bridge of his nose.

There was no doubt that he was distracted by these complex political and religious problems facing the papacy. Even beyond that, there was the issue of his internal arch-enemy, the Cardinal Epsiscopo Borgia. He had been appointed as a cardinal by the previous holder of the office, Alexander VII. If it was not pure nepotism, then Clement did not know why he had appointed him. The man did not deserve to be a servant of the Church.

“Father…?”

His thoughts were suddenly disturbed, and he turned toward the source of the voice. His secretary at the door.

“Yes, my son?” he asked, calmly

“Commander Röist has arrived, should I send him in?”

“Ah. Yes, please do send him in. We should not be interrupted.”

Only a short moment later, the commander marched in the door, garbed in the traditional colours of the Medici family beneath his half-plate. Unlike the tricolour uniforms of the normal soldiers, he wore the crimson garb of an officer. Under his arm, he held a helmet with a white plume, specifying his rank.

“Your holiness.” He greeted Clement with a deep bow.

“I believe you have the report?”

“Yes, I do, and the same report had been dispatched to the Grandmaster. I assume you want to hear a summary from me, Your Holiness?”

Clement motioned with an affirmed hand. “Please do”

Commander Röist cleared his throat, “As you know, we suspect Cardinal Borgia to be a part of a Human trafficking ring of Christians and child slavery, with a possible connection to the Cult - hence our participation in this investigation. Several orphaned children and beggars have disappeared since the war in Italy began, decades ago. We continue running into dead ends. We suspect a warlock is at work.”

There was a brief pause. “However, there is likely another warlock at present in the Vatican - but we are unsure how to handle this one. Ansaldo Leonardo, a friar from the Order of Preachers with no connection to the Cult at all, and, more importantly, he seems to be untrained.”

“How so?”

“His methods to keep himself hidden. He appeared to be aware that he might draw...attention, though his methods were anything but subtle. Expected of one who is completely ignorant of us. The Cult would not place such a clumsy warlock so close to the Holy See. Not unless they wanted to distract from another...”

Clement held back a snort at that. Of course these hunters of the Inquisition had been trained to look out for such sources of magic and the cultists. Like a group of wolves, they stalked their prey for months on end, silently and patiently, waiting until they struck down their prey. A dangerous group, indeed. However, he knew they were fanatical and unrelenting in their pursuit of divine justice. 

The Grandmaster was no sentimental man. If there was a hint of corruption, they would not hesitate to act, even in the Vatican. So why did they not hunt down this Ansaldo?

Commander Röist seemed to read Clement’s silent question. “We investigated his past. Ansaldo is one of the most faithful Servants of the Church, and more interested in the past than the rest of his brothers and sisters. He had no known connection with the Cult until he arrived at the Vatican last year, and to be frank, seems wholly ignorant of their existence.” 

“What was he brought here to do?”

“To catalogue the vast collection of artefacts, as is his speciality,” the Commander looked at Clement intently. “Your Holiness, where do these artefacts, he was tasked with looking over, come from?”

“I do not know their true origin,” Clement admitted. “They have been in our possession since the blackest day in 1204. However, rumours stated that some of them were once owned by a solar cult who worshipped a nameless pharaoh.”

“Egyptians,” Röist muttered. “Unsurprising. Such artifacts would certainly draw the attention of the Cult.”

“This Solar Cult may be Egyptian in origin,” Clement added. “But, according to the rumours, they were also behind the Sol Invictus - the official State Cult of the Roman Empire, until Saint Constantine the Great converted to Christianity after which the successive emperors hunted Sol Invictus down.”

“I see,” the Commander mused. “What should we do with Ansaldo, Your Holiness?”

After a long break, Clement finally responded. “Having a warlock - nay, a wizard, joined to the Church is too valuable an opportunity. Ensure that Ansaldo does not fall to the Cult. I suspect they will move first if we don’t – especially if Cardinal Borgia has a connection to it.”

Röist shook his head and kept his disgust from showing up, “It would be a mistake, Your Holiness. The cultists and their warlocks are immoral creatures and the spawn of the Devil themselves. They need to be put down like the rabid dogs they are.”

“I tend to agree but having a wizard with no connection to the Cult is unprecedented,” Clement pointed out. “When was it last time it happened?”

“Not since the time of King Arthur. The myths say Merlin was a warlock - or a wizard, as you say.” the Commander muttered.

Clement nodded. “Ansaldo is a blank state. If we recruited him, we could mould him into a foremost defender of the Church.”

Röist seemed unconvinced. “I fear he will fall to the darkness even if we bring him into our fold. Warlocks wield the unnatural and ungodly. One cannot use the Devil’s powers in service of the Lord.”

“Only give heed to yourself and keep your soul diligently, so you do not forget the things which your eyes have seen, and they do not depart from your heart all the days of your life.” Clement quoted from the Holy Scriptures. “And you are wrong. Such gifts are not the inherent power of the Devil. You might well consider the Saints themselves warlocks for the miracles they performed. If we guide Ansaldo on the right path and expose him to the evil of the cult, then he will stay in the light.”

Röist hesitated. “I think we need to consult the Grandmaster before we take such a step.”

“No.” Clement responded filmy. “Informed, he should be, but it cannot paralyze us at this critical point. Any further delay could be dangerous to our effort against the cult - and Ansaldo could be seduced into it before a decision is reached. I ask you to recruit him as quickly as possible, preferably within the week.”

Röist pursed his lips but nodded. “As you command, Your Holiness, but how could we acquire his trust?”

“I believe I have a solution.”

Clement walked over to his desk, and, grabbing a parchment and quill, began to write something down. Once finished, he folded the letter, melted some wax, and then sealed it with his signet ring, before handing it over to the Commander. “This letter will give him a guarantee of protection by the Holy See against excommunication and the Inquisition. I will need to formalise it, but it will suffice for now.”

“I will see what I can do, Your Holiness.” Commander Röist gave a deep bow before leaving the papal office with the letter in hand.

***

**Papal Office, Vatican, Rome 1525**

“This artefact is a bust of a nameless pharaoh. Unlike the more frozen and idealised sculpture of pharaohs, this bust is made with a greater emphasis on realism in an extremely stylized and exaggerated depiction. I am not sure as to its accuracy. Unlike those few sculptures smuggled out of Mohammedan-controlled Egypt, this one was made of marble and not of sandstone.”

Ansaldo showed his sketch to Cardinal Borgia. The drowned bust had some similarities to the other Ancient Egyptian sculptures, such as the crown, the false beard, and the eye makeup, but it ended there. His face was somewhat unattractive and natural. He looked… more human.

“His name on hieroglyphs was at the crown in the front. I attempted to find possible pharaohs he could be, without luck, in _Aegyptiaca_ , a work on Egyptian history written by the Classical Greek scholar Manetho. However, there is an empty spot between two pharaohs living for roughly 2900 years ago, as if his name had been removed from the kinglist. To make him an unperson…”

“Interesting.” Borgia interrupted with a strange gleam in his eyes. “What can you tell me about the orb?”

“Irregular.” Ansaldo started, excitement coming to the fore. “All civilizations leave links to prior heritages and ancestry, the Mohhamedans prove this as they take from Greeks, Persians and local corruptions of the Bible-”

Borgia raised a brow. “Focus.”

Ansaldo stopped, held his tongue and gathered his thoughts. “The orb has no connection to anything I have been able to find, nothing directly referencing its making or artifice, only connections to Roman sun worshippers, though the connection is...tenuous.”

“Tenuous?”

He wet his lips. “The orb was seemingly found in a temple to the Roman sun god, Sol Invictus, together with this bust of the nameless pharaoh. Translation was impossible, and the manuscript was...not kept well.” He could feel the sheer interest of the Cardinal. “The writing was strange enough in hieroglyphs, a language lost to us.”

“Interesting.” The Cardinal stood up, stretching his legs. “How very curious.” Then he smiled, placing a hand on Ansaldo’s shoulder. “Is there...anything I can help you with? Your tongue is-”

**_-Heavy with dread, Ansaldo, far too heavy._ **

Ansaldo tensed, eyes widening as the Cardinal stared at him with all too joyful eyes.

“-too tired.”

“I-” He tried.

“Relax.” Borgia held up a hand. “Only those who have studied this… talent, could have recognised it. I believe no one but I has - or _could_ \- noticed your newfound abilities. Rest assured; I have no plans to deliver you to the Inquisition. In fact, I am most curious in knowing how you received these powers. Was it from the orb?”

Ansaldo responded with a mute nod.

“Most curious. What happened when you touched the orb?”

He briefly wondered how to answer this, though he refused to explain his meeting with the entity in the blue abyss. Even if he was friendly now, he did not trust the cardinal entirely yet.

“I began to hear voices once I touched the orb, and, since then, I learned I could see into the minds of others.”

Borgia nodded slowly, his eyes lighting up as he appeared to make a connection. “Was _this_ why you requested access to the Secret Library? To seek the answer for your newfound powers?” He tsked. “Understandable, but a dead end - though, of course, you would not know this. You would not find such books on this subject in that library, because they exist on the list of forbidden books.”

Ansaldo hid his disappointment but was unsurprised by the revelation. There were books suppressed from circulation, but otherwise were too useful not to put aside for scholarship or artificial purpose, and then there were these books that were outright burned for their content.

“ _Fortunately_ , I have such a book in my personal collection,” Borgia said with a playful smile. “It is a grimoire written by Francois Balfour, Comte d’Erlette, a very gifted magician. I cannot, unfortunately, promise it will answer all of your questions - but you may find some comfort in knowing that what you experience is normal for men such as you. You will need to read French, as there are no translated copies.” He waved a hand idly, his tone mildly scornful. “Burned by the Inquisition, along with the good magician. I likely have the last copy.”

“I can read some French, I suppose.”

“Then come by again tomorrow, and I will have the book for you.”

Ansaldo moved to the door.

“Ansaldo.” The Cardinal called out, though he did not turn to face the man. “I am among the very few you can trust with such knowledge. Have no fear - I am a friend to you.”

 ** _Whatever you should need, Ansaldo._** The voice of the Cardinal rang in his head. **_I am there to aid you._**

Ansaldo did not cease his hurried pace, not until he was out of sight and hearing, not until he could think without fear threatening to turn him into a human statue.

***

**Guesthouse, Vatican, Rome, 1525**

In his chamber, he sat at the table with the book he had picked up from the Cardinal. A thick, black, leather-bound tome. Merely holding this book felt forbidden. Carefully, he opened it. The first page of the tome was a skilful painting of a creature on a dark blue background. It looked like a kraken with a single vertical eye in the centre, was painted in golden colours. The next page was the title of the book and the author. 

_The Umbral Tome by Francois Balfour, Comte d’Erlette_.

Ansaldo leafed through the tome. Without realising it, he had finished the first fifty pages, as though the hours had melted away. Ansaldo barely remembered the book’s heretical nature between the arguments and dogma, between the veiled secrets teased among finely crafted logic.

It was unsettlingly convincing; he could easily see why it was burned.

_Let me tell you a story._

_In an age long ago, a wandering priest stopped at a village. A storm, an earthquake and a flood had all hit this quaint town. The people decried the misery, the cruelty of it, they trudged through their existence, sad and weak and miserable._

_Why? Why, oh why are we beset by such misery? They asked._

_Why do our sons die, and our daughters lose their newborns? Why are some deformed and some strange and some ill-begotten?_

_The priest answered their woes._

_For no reason, none at all._

_Why live?! Why struggle?! Why do anything?! Why live in this facetious lie of morality and madness?!_

_No reason, none at all._

_Broken in spirit, stripped of their lies, the priest showed them a path._

Ansaldo turned the page, eyes poring over the words. 

_Starving, hungry and tired, they worked. For what is higher than dirt and hunger and desire, if not ideals? If not, the things that make pain and suffering bearable?_

The pages turned, almost of their own accord.

_Only in duty does the pain and suffering of life lessen. But no simple duty is enough. Only a great one may suffice. For, in serving true greatness, one elevates themselves. One elevates themselves to the true meaning of existence._

The pages blurred.

_Morality is a lie. The world is an irrational, humourless joke, the deities of man fictitious and silent. The world is a fluke brought by chance triggered by coincidence. We are ants, dust, ash to be scattered in the wind. If we do not serve, if we do not bear a burden worthy of taking, then we may as well not exist._

_Thusly, showed them the priest, this self-evident truth opened their eyes._

_A truth they could not unsee. But the king of the land took scorn, he who they called the King of Swords, took issue. They worshipped a false God, the King of Swords raged. They toil for this priest, they live for him, they serve him!_

_Not I!_

_Not the King of Swords!_

_So the King rode to the priest. He demanded answers, he demanded truths, and he was given all he asked for. He refused them all. No answer was sufficient, and no truth could open his eyes. Deluded beyond measure, he put the village to the sword. Men, women, and children._

_Why?_

_Because the truth discomforted him. He preferred a lie of comfort, of what he believed to be true. He wanted a lie, he wanted comfort, he wanted safety and reassurance of his existence._

_For one simple truth, a fact we tell you without lie or misdirection or beguilement. An ascendance to higher thought, beyond the vile bases of human intellect. For we, we offer one thing._

_We do not offer good._

_We do not offer evil._

_We offer meaning._

What page was he at? How far? It didn’t matter.

_For to serve is to have meaning, and service is its own reward. A life lived for its own is one without meaning. Purpose in servitude is animus, and divine service is divine animus. Elevate yourself to such heights, to where meaning is immortal, where the meaningless chaotic cacophony may be blown away by the clarity of service._

_Serve a higher existence. Tear the veil of the lies you are told and see the truth. See truth for what it is. A lie. There is no universal truth, there is no settled reason. The world is mad and pointless, deities are a lie, kings mortal and ugly and queens mere broodmares._

He did not know what he should think about such statements. 

_There is no truth. There is no certainty. There is only the Deep One._

_Serve him, and you will see a true reality, one without the haze of the storm. A world brought to sanity and alignment._

The door opened.

Ansaldo felt his throat go dry, his heart skipped a beat as he knew, beyond all knowledge, who had unlocked and opened his door. 

Commander Röist stood, hand on his sheathed sword, eyes smouldering pits of purpose. “Ansaldo.” He greeted, like a predator warning his prey.

Ansaldo opened his mouth, and a terrified croak came out.

Besides Commander Röist was his subordinate, Captain Hercules Goldil, and three other swiss guards, all with their faces neutral, a mask that could not hide the suspicion and hesitation.

“An interesting choice of book to read on this fine evening.” Kasper Röist stated.

He glanced down at the heretical book. Then back at Kasper Röist. Then once more at both. “Y-yes?” He stuttered.

“Hmm.” Röist nodded knowingly. “I think we need to have a more private conversation.” He gestured. “After you.”

He obeyed the non-too veiled demand, wondering if what were to come next would be his final moments on Earth.

* * *

To be continued in:

**A Moral Dilemma**


	4. A Moral Dilemma

**Church of St. Pellegrino, Vatican, Rome. 1525**

The small church was silent and empty at this hour. Four Swiss guards stood at the entrance as Commander Röist escorted Ansaldo towards the altar. Why they were meeting in this church instead of at their garrison, he did not know.

“Sit.” Kasper Röist gestured to a wood chair in front of the altar.

Ansaldo slowly sat down and watched the commander with wary eyes as they sat down opposite one another.

“What shall we do with you?” Röist asked rhetorically, crossing his arms. Ansaldo could clearly sense hesitance and suspicion emanating from the commander, but he dared not to go against his moral conviction and read the commander’s mind.

Roist waited several seconds. “Why did you not use your abilities to escape?”

Ansaldo blinked at the commander. He had deliberately chosen _not_ to use telepathy to twist the minds of the Swiss guards. However, it was pointless to deny that he had these powers at this point. “I refuse to use my telepathy to force my will upon others.”

“Tele-pathy.” Röist played with the syllables, rolling them in his mouth. “Your behavior suggests sorcery of the mind. Yes?”

Ansaldo had to keep from stuttering as he explained the definition, as if he were reciting it from an encyclopaedia. The nervousness was apparent to the commander as well, he could tell. “Telepathy, from the Greek words ‘tele’, meaning ‘distant’ or ‘at a distance’, and the ‘pathos’, meaning ‘feeling’, is the purported vicarious transmission of information from one person to another without using any known human sensory channels or physical interaction…”

“Scholar.” Röist hissed, lifting an exasperated hand. “If I had had the patience for long diatribes of the useless prescription, I’d have joined the liturgical. Be _concise.”_

He closed his mouth and slowly blinked before opening it again. “It is my own term for this ability I possess. Telepathy means mind reading. I consider it sacrilegious to violate the sanctity of the mind.” 

“Sacrilege,” the commander mused, eyes fixated on Ansaldo. “Principles. Morality. A first in my career. You can use this ‘telepathy’ but refuse to manipulate or read the minds around you. How irregular, how strange of a warlock.” 

It was Ansaldo’s turn to be confused. “I have not heard that word before.”

The commander unexpectedly smirked. “A man of your vocabulary? I’m surprised. ‘Warlock’ is Old English for ‘oathbreaker’ or ‘deceiver.’ To us, the warlocks are those with your abilities, who have made a pact with the Black Priest. A servant of the Deep One.”

Ansaldo’s confusion did not abait. “Who is the Black Priest and this Deep One?”

“If you think the devil hides from man, then you will be grievously disappointed. The Cult, and their vain idol of worship...they are matters of grave consideration.” Roïst crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at him. “First, we must determine if you are a warlock or not.”

“How can I be sure you will not kill me for my abilities?”

Roist seemed amused at the question. “What wolf asks his prey for its throat? If there was not a question around it, we would not be speaking. Make no mistake, we would have acted, had we not learned you were deeply ignorant of us and the Cult. Curiously…” he hesitated shortly, before pulling out a letter and handing it over to Ansaldo. “His Holiness has shown an interest in you.”

Ansaldo carefully picked up the letter, studying it. Indeed, it was the seal of His Holiness, Pope Clement VII. With caution that nearly surprised even himself, he opened it, noticing that this short message was written by the Pope himself, and in a surprisingly informal tone.

_Ansaldo_

_I apologize that you must find yourself in such circumstances with so little information , but I must urge you to trust Commander Kasper Röist and his comrades of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. Despite his role, you can trust he has good intentions, and I would suggest you cooperate with him, as I believe you innocent of any wrongdoing._

_We thank you for providing an excellent service in cataloguing the artefacts found during the renovation of St. Peter’s Basilica. It was not our intention for you to unexpectedly receive these abilities, and subsequently find yourself attracting the attention of those such as Commander Röist ._

_This letter guarantees you protection from excommunication._

_May Our Lord watch over you,_

_Clement VII_

A faint smile broke out on Ansaldo’s face, and he sagged slightly in his seat. Most enjoyable of all was the certainty that he would not burn on a cross. “Then-”

“Then you will strip. Please remove your clothes.”

Ansaldo’s immediate revulsion died when every last person in the room drew their swords. Röist simply placed a loaded crossbow, aimed at Ansaldo’s skull, on the table. 

“Please.” Röist amended. “Feel free to wear that you were born with. It will make it easier to decide what you will die with.”

Ansaldo remembered something from the _Malleus Maleficarum_. According to the witch-hunter’s handbook, one of ways to find a witch, or warlock, he supposed, was to look for a permanent marking of the Devil, as a sign of their obedience and service to him. Röist surely was looking for a devil’s mark. 

“...but I do not have a mark on me.” He blunted out.

“Then you have nothing to worry about, and we won’t have to spend coin on whetstones and crossbow bolts.” 

Ansaldo hesitantly began to undress, and as soon he stood as naked as a new-born. Röist pulled out a parchment from inside his uniform and slowly walked around, carefully observing Ansaldo’s pale skin, seemingly looking for a tattoo matching the mark on the parchment. 

“Clear.” A guard said.

“Clear.” A second said.

On and on, all of them repeated the phrase, each at different intervals, and in a specific, non-obvious order. Once every guard had spoken the all-clear, they sheathed their swords.

“You are clean,” Commander Röist finally stated. “You may dress yourself once more.”

“What did you look for?” Ansaldo could not contain his curiosity, as he finished pulling his robe over his head.

Röist ignored the question and sat back down, handing the crossbow over to one of the guards. “How did you gain your abilities?”

Ansaldo hesitated at first, but he believed that these Swiss guards would no doubt strike him down at the first sign of dishonesty. “I realized I could read the minds of others after I touched one of the artefacts I was brought to catalogue.”

Roist did not seem surprised, curiously enough. A slight nod as he continued. “Does this artefact have some connection to Egypt? Potentially a solar cult?”

Ansaldo nodded vigorously. “The artefact was found in a temple dedicated to the Roman Sol cult, Sol Invictus, together with a marble burst of a pharaoh so, yes, it is connected to ancient Egypt.”

Commander Röist relaxed, his shoulder untensed. “And have you confirmed this, scholar?”

He nodded nervously.

“When you touched the artefact, did you form some kind of contract?”

Ansaldo recalled his brief experience into the blue abyss. He could see an entity in the distance and felt its presence, but he did not form any kind of contract with it – rather, he was, seemingly, gifted these powers.

“No, I was gifted with these abilities.”

“I see.” Commander Röist mused. “And these artefacts were older than the cult,” he muttered to himself. “Ansaldo,” he said. “His Holiness wants us to...recruit you into our organisation. I apologise for the treatment, but you must understand that we cannot take chances with men of your abilities. Those who attain power often do so by making deals better left umentioned.”

“What?” Ansaldo raised an eyebrow. “No poking myself with a silver needle or a similar test?”

Röist scoffed at that. “The misguided so-called witch-hunts of heretical and innocent wise women were purely political, born of nothing but superstition. A waste of time. No, we have seen true magic, and you are a practitioner of such magic.”

Ansaldo put two and two together. Mercenaries were normally not hired as inquisitors, but were servants of the Church, such as his own brothers of the Dominican Order.

“Who are you?” Ansaldo asked. “You are not the Swiss Guard.”

“We are the blades in the dark, dying in the night so that others may live in the light.” Röist. “We are the sword and arrow, the eyes watching you in your most secure of mansions. The undaunted. The relentless. The fearless.”

“We, Ansaldo, are the wolves. We are the Nos Venari.” The Commander finished. “They call us Venatores, we are a branch of the Inquisition dedicated to rooting out and destroying heresy and artefacts of a more supernatural bent. The Cult of the Deep Dark and its leader, the Black Priest, have long been our targets. Others emerge, rarely, though they tend not to last.”

The guards chuckled, their teeth flashing.

Commander Röist appraised Ansaldo with a finger on his chin and came to a decision. “We have been undercover in the Vatican, both as additional security for His Holiness, and to uncover the identity of the Archbishop Roma, the defiant face of the cult hidden in the heart of the Vatican in plain sight, all while he supplies the cult with willing supplicants.”

Ansaldo tried his best not to flinch. 

“Yes, scholar.” Commander Röist declared. “Our vigil has ended. Now, we hunt.” 

Ansaldo felt the Commander’s thoughts, so pungent it made him shudder. It was hidden behind an ironclad will mere moments ago, but now he could feel it. Bloodlust, like a carnivore that had been starving and finally, _finally_ smelt blood.

“If you are worried about being excluded, don’t be, you have been invited.” Röist stated after a pause. “Your powers will give us an advantage, an opportunity we have never had before.”

“May I-” Ansaldo’s voice wavered. “May I ask what you have in mind?”

“Not now.” Röist’s smile was eerie in the torchlight. “In the dark of the night, when the dogs howl, then we will find you. Prepare yourself.”

“Who are the Cult of the Dark Deep, the Black Priest and this Deep One?” Ansaldo asked again.

Commander Röist leaned forward, and his eyes drilled deeply into Ansaldo. “Let me explain what this Cult is. They are heretics, heathens. They are not Pagan, but they worship…Something. Something that has given them power beyond the natural, consistently, and evidently. Their leader, their Black Prophet, has spread teachings proclaiming this _thing_ as a living divinity.”

Ansaldo felt a chill run down his spine. “Is it...real?”

Röist tapped his finger on the table. “It might be. Or it might not. We know the cult to be a band of liars, murderers, monsters, and abominable actors. It changes nothing, except what we must fight. And if it is a living deity, a creature of heavenly might, a divinity incarnate, come down the heavens themselves to smite us for our insolence?”

He waved around him, all across to his men. “Then, all the same, we will fight fang and claw.”

“How could you possibly win, then?”

“Scholar.” Röist spoke. “We’ve faced warlocks and taken their heads. We’ve triumphed over legions of soldiers so excellent, the Germanic knights in full plate pale in comparison. Our enemy has always been mightier, and, yet we fight, and we hunt, and we die.”

Röist spread his hands. “Our enemies are everywhere. Nobility disillusioned with reality, disenchanted with the teachings of the Lord, seeking meaning in abhorrent hedonism and self-satisfaction, desiring a place in a new world to come. The hungry and weak, seduced by libraries of knowledge so magnificent, our own scholars weep over the scraps we recover.”

“Ansaldo.” Röist leaned forward, face twisted in an expression of fury. “I have seen orphanages turned into training grounds. Girls turned into pleasure toys to produce income, to fill gold coffers. Contracts of usury, drinking wealth like a hungry monster drinks blood. There is _nothing_ they will not do to win _._ They are beholden only to themselves and their hunger for power and victory.”

“What of their warlocks?” Ansaldo asked, voice almost cracking. “Surely not all of them turn evil?”

Röist chuckled.

A guard snorted.

Another leaned on the doorframe, holding his mouth shut to stop the laughter.

“Evil.” Röist repeated. “ _Evil_.”

“This is not a jest.” He blurted out. “Surely not all who attain this power are so...hideous in character?”

“ _Evil_.” Röist said once more with a shake of his head. “Yes, you could call them that. But the word loses meaning, it says so little of the abominations that walk amongst our midst. I have seen your power used to bend righteous women into becoming little more than obedient whores. I have seen _small armies_ broken with such brutality that nearly no men live to tell the tale.”

“They are simply evil, truly and utterly .” Röist smiled a dead, lifeless smile. “They are the malice of the devil. Spitting on our courage, laughing at our honor, and thriving in the most horrid realities of mortal life. Zealous, driven, and monstrous. They are everywhere, in the banks, in the Vatican, in the royal courts. Open your eyes Ansaldo, and they’ll be there, watching you from the darkness.”

He picked up the parchment from earlier, showing it to Ansaldo. It held a glyph of unknown meaning, an approximation of a sword and shield, recognizable, though vaguely inhuman, festooned with an intricate series of lines.

“Very few can awaken their magical powers via methods developed by the Cult.” Röist continued. “They call them the Marked Ones, a sign of their masters' favor. Their title is derived from this glyph, seared into the chests. The mark has a simple meaning. **_Absolute._** ” 

Commander Röist pointed his finger at Ansaldo’s chest. “You do not bear this mark anywhere on yourself, which means you were independently awoken outside the Cult. A warlock awakening their magical abilities, despite not having a connection to the Cult or their deity, is unprecedented.”

A pause.

“Or perhaps.” Röist pondered aloud. “They all are all corrupted by degrees through whatever gives them their power, made to wield its sword by a path walked through subtle steps. Maybe you, too will end up as corrupt as all other warlocks.”

It was too much for Ansaldo. He felt totally out of his depth. _Was this being he saw in the abyss the same one the cult served?_

“I…” He tried to deny it. 

_Had there ever been a single warlock, sorcerer, or magician that did not commit evil?_

“I am better than that.” He bit out. “I serve the Lord; I am a holy man.”

He slowly stood up, preparing for the Commander and his guards to stop him, but Röist merely followed his movement with a fixed glance. “And holy men will cry the name of the Lord as they rape and pillage and burn, all the while laughing at the evils they commit. What makes you any different?”

With quick steps and his heart in his throat, he walked, quickly, towards the main door. He recognised the guard standing there, Röist’s subordinate, Captain Hercules Goldil. He looked at Commander Röist for an affirmation before opening the door.

Röist’s voice rang behind him. “Tread carefully, Ansaldo. The night is dark and full of starving wolves.”

Ansaldo fled into the darkness. 

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome 1525**

The season had shifted towards autumn, and a chilly wind blew through the wet air as Ansaldo walked through the Gardens beside Cardinal Borgia, deeply in thought. Though he was careful to not let the thought leave his own mind, Ansaldo was not sure he could place his trust in the eagerly murderous Venatores. He went to the only person he knew who could maybe provide some answers, and Cardinal Borgia suggested taking a walk in the Gardens.

“Your Eminence,” Ansaldo finally spoke. “The Venatores have accosted me-” 

**_-The wolves are watching, beware what you give away. Beware their lies and facades. A wolf cares not for the sheep it slaughters._ **

He stopped. “And they’ve accused me of sorcery, of witchcraft.”

 ** _-They are?_** He stopped himself from looking around. **_I do not see anything_**

The Cardinal shook his head. “You were fortunate they did not kill you on the spot. These... _hunters_ are a group of fanatics, worse than the most zealous inquisitor, and mostly target those with our... abilities.” He looked sharply at Ansaldo, before letting his glance wander around the Gardens. “It is not a good sign that they have approached you. It is surprising they let you live.”

“So you know of them?”

“Oh yes. They are the very same people who burned Comte d’Erlette at the stake. What did they want with you?”

Borgia let his glance wander again, stopping at a spot in the shadows.

**_-Move your gaze there, to the trees. Do you see him, a wolf in sheep’s skin?_ **

Ansaldo followed Borgia’s glance and gulped. At the trees, a caretaker, wearing simple, dirty clothes, sat, seemingly napping. So innocuous, so unworthy of remark, he had not noticed him observing them from between the trees. _It was no wonder why the Commander let him go._

He swallowed the fear that shot up in his heart. **_Were they always there?_**

**_-They were. You simply never noticed. Let them observe, it matters little. They would not attack us in such a public place. Now, what did they want with you?_ **

“They warned me against you… Claimed you are a member of a cult.” Ansaldo chose to respond verbally, voice lower and guarded. 

“Those zealots. Typical,” Borgia sighed loudly. “What did they accuse me of?”

“That you are worshipping an evil being...” Ansaldo stopped, deep in thought, as if he had realised something. According to the Holy Scripture, Earth was the center of the cosmos, with a number of heavenly spheres layered upon each other like an onion, and the fixed stars seen on the night sky formed the outermost sphere. _If the being the cult worshipped was from beyond the heavens, then it implied the existence of a power equal to God._

“But this is impossible, is that not? According to the Holy Scripture, there is nothing beyond the skies but God and his heavenly throne. It is blasphemy to suggest otherwise.”

**_-The very same scriptures declaring all men who call themselves holy to be good, and all that opposes them to be evil, regardless of reason and truth. How convenient for them, that they benefit most._ **

Borgia laughed gregariously. “What a ridiculous idea. Only God sits at the throne of Heaven. There is nothing more divine than the Lord. The Lord who is good, who is kind, who is just. I sincerely do not see why you are thinking so much upon this, it is a simple matter.”

**_-A lord that does nothing as holy and righteous women are violated by barbaric raiders. Who does nothing as they beg and plead in his name ‘Elohim, Elohim’ and he replies with soundless silence and scorn._ **

Ansaldo started, mouth agape.

Borga smiled. “Are you fine, my child?”

**_-Lies are a comforting thing, are they not? What a shame they are little more than that. Lies and myths, and what wonderful myths they are. Look what wealth and power they give us over our fellow man._ **

“I...I see. I merely had some doubts I needed to be cleared.”

He felt his lips become dry, and his mouth even dryer. _What had he gotten into? What madness was this?_

**_-The madness of the music of the spheres, of that sound you ignored all your life, because you never paid attention to it. What a haunting symphony it becomes, what violent light it shows._ **

“Truly, you scholarly lot listen to skeptics too much.” Cardinal Borgia scoffed. “If the Scriptures represent the flawless and inerrant word of God, why listen to the physical evidence that tells otherwise? Clearly one is superior to the other.”

**_-Exit your cave, deny the lies around you, and see, with your own eyes, the light, in all its ugliness and beauty. You will find a majesty of reality beyond the lies they tell you._ **

Ansaldo tried to come up with an argument, with something, anything.

He could feel his heart pounding.

His feet felt like they were standing on thin ice. An incautious step, and he would fall in and drown.

He was shaking. His whole world was shaking.

“These heretic and pagans.” He said, slowly, feeling his tongue shudder in his mouth. “Why do they believe what they believe, why do they not see the self-evident truth of the Lord?”

**_-Who said it was the truth? The Lord himself, descended from his mythical throne in a mythical place in the sky, borne aloft the wings of mythical creatures?_ **

“An easy doubt to clear, but it requires a moment’s thought. For one, it is ignorance.” Borgia scratched his chin. “Think of it in this manner: we have little understanding of the inner workings of the universe - what we do not know fills an ocean, but we often find little nuggets of truth. This is the same reason we, today, could circumnavigate the Earth. But, think upon this, what separates the sun and the stars we see? What makes them different?”

**_-Or men scared of death, picking up the words and stories of their ancestors. Piecing together a broken mirror tapestry of reality, trying to explain that which they, in their ignorance, could not understand?_ **

**_Mohammedans cobbling Arabian fables and Judeic stories into a new sect, a new mirror to explain what they do not know._ **

**_Pagans create Gods for every river and stone and tree, for every idea and concept they can think of._ **

**_What separates them, truly, when they are all built on the same false foundations?_ **

He became quiet, as he recalled something he had read previously, ironically, shortly before he had received the summons to the Holy See. A thought echoed in his mind. _The discovery of America and the circumnavigation have revealed shortcomings in classical knowledge, but it has also opened up new possibilities for our perspectives in this world. For, each year, the world has only grown larger._

“Are you suggesting each star in the night sky is, itself, a distant sun, and that we would not be able to prove it before developing a better tool to do so?” Ansaldo cited Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa’s theory.

“Indeed. From anywhere on Earth, the Sun appears to revolve around Earth. While the Moon and the planets have their own motions, they also appear to revolve around Earth. The stars likewise appeared to be fixed on a celestial sphere. From our perspective, Earth seems to be fixed in the center of the universe. In truth, the Earth, the planets, and the moon revolve around the Sun.”

“The stars are so far away, at such an implausible distance, that we would not observe the shifting of the ‘fixed’ stars with our own eyes.” Borgia stated. “If we use an optical instrument yet to be invented to observe the universe, we could measure the movement of the stars.”

**_-All of these vain faiths built atop human reason. Flawed, ignorant, barbaric human reason of ages ago. Yet, we hold to their idiot thoughts for no logical reason, none at all_ **

Cardinal Borgia let his hand move across the sky. “Each star in the night sky is a distant sun. Each sun has likewise planets and moons. A majestic thought to comprehend, if it were true.”

**_-And it is._ **

**_Beyond your greatest imagining._ **

**_Beyond your wildest dreams._ **

**_Beyond the idiot reason of tribal past._ **

**_Beyond the cave all of these men around us hide in, covering their eyes and ears from the inconvenient truths._ **

**_Oh what glory there is beyond the cave, beyond the violent light, beyond even the night._ **

**_What glory there is, amidst the deep dark._ **

Ansaldo grasped his shaking hand, hiding it under his robe. Something existing beyond God’s throne was impossible. Distant stars, each with their own versions of Earth, their own civilisations. Yet, he had met a being beyond his comprehension and wielded powers defying God’s laws. He quickly forsook this topic and returned to his original question.

“Why did the Venatores claim your… group to be evil?”

**_-A man who speaks truth in a world of lies...does he speak truth, or a lie?_ **

Ansaldo’s eyes widened, and he almost lost the strength in his legs. “He said you did terrible things.”

**_-Ask him what he does to the women he catches. To the children he finds. To the families he judges. These ‘men’ are beasts. Animals. Hell-bent on accomplishing their goal, by any and all means. What are a few lies to suppress a threat to the power of the papacy?_ **

“I deny such accusations vehemently. Upon my honor as a man of the Lord. I hope that puts your doubts to rest, my dear child?” Borgia caught him, holding him for his moment of weakness. “It is my greatest pleasure to rest such doubts.”

Ansaldo shivered. He felt ill. He felt wrong. As though his heart had been extracted from his still-living body. “How can I know that you’re not lying to me? How do I know _anything_ is true?”

Cardinal Borgia nodded along as Ansaldo responded. “Would you please cite one phase from the Scriptures for me? Exodus 22:18 if you will.”

Of course the cardinal had picked up that exact biblical phase, one he knew by heart. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

“Are we evil, just because we use abilities that defy God’s law?”

“But this is our action that would speak loudest. Are we evil if we use our abilities, not to harm, but to heal?”

“Perhaps, but do you know why the late Pope Clement V disbanded the Knights Templar two hundred years ago? Were they evil?”

“They were accused of heresy, blasphemy and sodomy. They had fallen for the temptations of the devil and sinned against God..”

A sly smile formed on Borgia’s lips. “What if I told you they were falsely charged? King Philip had a large debt to the Knights Templar, and, because of this, the Templars had put the king ’s under financial administration and seized the royal treasury. Thus, the king a keen interest in having the order dissolved and confiscating their enormous riches.”

Borgia waved his hand. “His motive was blatant, but the Knights Templar could not be held accountable to any royal authority. They were subordinate only to his Holiness. Fortunately for Philip, he had the pope at the time in his own pocket, as they had been close friends from an early age, and even bribed several cardinals to raise his friend to his new position. Thus, the king could, on his own initiative, dare to carry out his large-scale arrest of the otherwise immovable Knights Templar, and force them to confess under torture, forcing his friend, the pope, to investigate the charges, which were handed over to the inquisition.”

He lifted a finger. “There they came, as wolves always do, when blood is to be spilt. The head of the investigation was Guillaume Humbert, the grandmaster of the Venatores at the time. The knights had withdrawn their confessions, claiming they were extracted through torture at the hand of King Philip’s men . However, Guillaume blatantly ignored these concerns and declared them guilty, claiming they had changed their explanation to the inquisition.”

“Captain Thomas de Carneillon, of the band of Flemish mercenaries who made the arrests and tortured the confession out of the Templars, was also a Venatore. Guillaume de Nogaret, the Chancellor of France, was recorded as having met with Guillaume Humbert several months before the arrests. It was as if the Venatores were the true masterminds behind the fall of the Knights Templar.” He pointed at the general direction of the Lateran Palace. “You can find the records of this in the library.”

“Why would they do such a thing??” Ansaldo blurted out.

Borgia shrugged. “I do not know, but it seems the Venatores had ulterior interests when they brought down the Templars. As you can see, they are willing to take every advantage to achieve their ends - even if they destroy one churchly institution in the process.”

**_-The Templars were a righteous breed of knight, holy, god-fearing, and honest. They did not accept the methods and horror of the Nos Venari. They did not wish to live in a world of such gratuitous evil and suffering, perpetuated by those who proclaimed holiness._ **

**_The Venatores destroyed them for it._ **

**_Destroyed them utterly for their heresy._ **

**_These are the wolves of the Church, Ansaldo, glorified murders. Enforcers of the Church and torturers of all who dare stand in their way._ **

“Beware the wolves in sheep’s clothing.” Cardinal Borgia smiled at Ansaldo, before leaving the poor friar in the midst of the garden with more questions than answers.

***

**The Secret Library, Vatican, Rome, 1525**

Ansaldo was once again in the secret library, buried in the books. This time, the reports on the investigation of the Knights Templars and the transcripts from the following trial were spread across the table. While he was not quite as knowledgeable about the final years of the Templars, he knew the legends. According to what he’d heard, the last Grandmaster of the Templar, Jecques de Molay, had cited both his Holiness Clement V and King Philip IV of France before the Tribunal of God. His final words were quite legendary.

_You, who see us perishing in the flames, must know that this injustice will be answered for. I am summoning King Philip IV and Pope Clement V to appear and be judged before God almighty before this year runs out._

_And King Philip! No punishment is too heinous for the great evil you have inflicted upon the temple. I curse you! Curse you for thirteen generations of your blood! You shall be cursed!”_

_Seven times a hundred years after this day of destiny, the Order will, through light and truth, have its righteous resurrection here on Earth as well._

Indeed, his holiness Clement V had died in a torment of loathsome disease, roughly one month after the trial of the Templar Grandmaster. According to one account, a thunderstorm arose during that night and lightning struck the church where the pope’s body was laid to rest, settling it on fire. The fire was so intense that, by the time it was extinguished, his Holiness’ body had been all but destroyed. 

Eight months later, King Philip IV of France suffered an accident while hunting. Within thirteen years, the French throne passed rapidly through Philip’s sons, who all died young, without producing heirs. By 1338, the House of Capet was extinguished, and the throne had passed onto the House of Valoris, leading to disputes over succession and the Hundred Year’s War, as different factions battled for the throne.

However, as he looked over the records, it began to look more and more like a mock trial, in which the Knights Templar had been denied due process and fairness in order to punish them, regardless of whether they were actually guilty or not. At one point, His Holiness Clement V summoned a council to present the result of the Inquisition’s inquiry. However, the process was delayed, as the Inquisition could not build a sufficiently convincing case in time. When the council finally began, Clement V created a committee so he could steer the direction of the council.

Of course, the council wanted to hear the Knights Templar’s own defence against the accusations leveled against them, and,in return, they quickly presented a list with more than one thousand knights and demanded speaking time. However, Clement refused their request to be heard, before suddenly changing his mind and suspending the council and disbanding the Templar Order using a Papal Bull.

Why had not only the Venatores, but also Pope Clement, worked against the process of the trial? There was nothing which prevented Clement from letting the Knights Templar speak to the council. Here he would have an opportunity to let the doubt benefit the knights, but he clearly did not want that. The motives of King Philip were understandable, considering his vast debt, but what motives did the Venatores and Clement V have in disbanding the Order?

A voice voice barked from above, startling Ansaldo. He looked up, and met face to face with the Commander, once again. He noticed, for the first time, that the sun had begun casting long shadows into the library. He had, once again, lost track of time.

“We meet here again at this hour.” The Commander said and looked at the documents spread across the table. “Why are you looking at the transcripts of the trial of the Knights Templar?”

“Why did you and the Pope at the time attempt to bring a churchly institution down on false charges?” Ansaldo asked bluntly.

This was an honest question from a confused friar, but, surprisingly, he received an honest response.

“The changes were not false, but our actual proof was simply too dangerous to use.”

Ansaldo blinked mutely at the commander, unable to speak.

“The Knights Templar wanted to create a new world order by using the essence of Christianity, Judaism, and the Mohammedans.” The commander continued flatly. “The new world order would be ruled by a universal monarch, with principles based on the Commandments of God. You see, when we raided their temple, we found the Ark of the Covenant in their procession.”

“The Ark of the Covenant?” Ansaldo stammered.

“I have seen it with my own eyes.” the commander pointed his finger downwards. “It is currently in the Forbidden Vault below us. There did indeed exist two stone tables within it,” he leaned forward. “But they were not written in the hand of God’s chosen people, but in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

Ansaldo froze in his chair. He immediately knew what the discovery would mean for the world. Especially in these times. The church would not survive if this came out.

“How do I know you tell me the truth?”

The commander spread his hands. “Have I told you anything but the truth now and back at the church?”

He nodded mutely, as he certainly could not sense dishonesty from the commander. Then again, Borgia had been equally truthful with him, and far more honest than anyone he had ever met. “Can I see the Ark?” he asked.

“I was blindfolded when I was guided down to the vault, and only the Grandmaster knew the location of the Ark.” He lifted his hand, as if stopping Ansaldo from interrupting him. “And he will not return to the Vatican before we have dealt with the Archbishop.”

“But you do not know-”

Röist pushed a paper aside, reading it. “Cardinal Borgia is a truly charming man.”

Ansaldo froze. 

“He can make the most wicked of ideas seem so sensible.” Röist shrugged. “He is rather obvious, in hindsight. I am sure he’s made some long-winded, clever point about how we’re deluded and irrational, and he’s ‘stepped out of the cave.’ Their usual diatribe.” 

“He...he did.”

“Then allow me, scholar, to dispel the doubt that gripped you with his heretical words and invite you to see the man without the false skin he wears.” 

“...You could be lying to me; everything could be a lie.”

Röist bared his teeth. “Good. Doubt everything, shatter your unstable foundations, remove your preconceptions and false understandings. Erase them, and the naive, blind you of yesterday. Let only truth remain, where once lies diluted it.”

Röist jerked his nose at these papers, at the hidden truths he had only now come to know. “And when only truth remains, then you won’t blink at the final leap of faith.”

“And what is that?” He asked, feeling oh so very tired of it all. “What new enlightenment are you now going to give me, commander?”

“That faith that cannot withstand doubt is a lie we tell ourselves, not a truth we believe in. That the leap of faith, our greatest act in life in mortal life.” Röist’s voice did not waiver, remaining an even, ironclad promise. “Is to fight and die to _live_ , for living to die is no life at all, and our ending will not be the end.”

“Our leap of faith.” Röist’s eyes glimmered with hunger. “Is to charge into the jaws of Hell, our death march shattering its palaces and kingdoms.”

He put the paper down. “The truth is that we have always fought against the Templars under various appellations since well before their founding in the 12th century. They may have been disbanded two hundred years ago, but they still exist. They were merely pushed underground, where they continue their nefarious work.” His smile held a warning, promising knowledge that might best be left unknown. “Shall I tell you more?”

***

**Royal Alcázar of Madrid, Madrid, Spain, 1526**

Charles V, King of Germany, King of Spain, Archduke of Austria, and Lord of the Netherlands, who ruled over a vast empire on which the Sun never set, was ill at ease, dissatisfied. King he may have been, but that was all he was - a King - not yet an emperor. Not a _true_ emperor. 

The most powerful monarch in Europe gazed out the window of his study, overlooking the city of Toledo. At this time of year, the city was busy preparing for the Easter Feast. Each of the organisers attempted to outshine each other, especially when trying to earn favour from the powerful monarch.

It was times such as this that he truly missed the simpler life he had as a child in Ghent, in the Netherlands, when hiding from his mentor was his only worry. Despite being only twenty-and-five, the many heavy crowns on his head were hard on the health of his mind and body. Conquistadores brought home enormous wealth from the new world, yet they were looted from the corpse of dead empires. Francis I of France felt trapped by his empire and had made several attempts to break this encirclement. The new sultan of the Turkish Empire, Suleiman, had begun to rattle his sword. Martin Luther’s movement threatened to tear his own empire apart from within.

And now, this. 

His spymaster had intercepted a communication between His Holiness and Doge Andrea Gritti of Venice. Clement VII was about to turn against him by breaking the alliance between them to form an anti-Imperial league with Doge Andrea of Venice and Francis I of France, in an attempt to drive him out of Italy, despite his strong claim on the Iron Crown of Lombardy. Duke Francesco II Sfoza of Milan had even joined this league.

However, this thought was interrupted by someone entering his study. He turned around, peering at the door. Indeed, it was his cousin Sigismund Falka. A man from an old and rich noble family from the Principality of Transylvania, with ties to the Hungarian branch of the Habsburg dynasty.

“Ah Cousin Sigismund. Please come in.”

“Thank you, my Emperor.” He said as he stepped in and bowed in according to the produce. “How can I be of assistance?”

He handed over the letter from his spymaster. “His Holiness is in communication with Doge Andrea and King Francis regarding their plan to organize an alliance to deter me from my righteous claim to the Iron Crown. I would like to hear your advice in dealing with this treacherous action.”

Cousin Sigismund slowly read the letter, mentally formulating an answer. He had, naturally, expected that the corrupted Papacy would attempt to hold on what little power the Pope had and fight back.

“It is foolish of His Holiness to act against you,” he agreed. ”But I suppose it was expected of him. I would advise you to respond to this alliance with force.” He put the letter down and looked up at the King. “As you are predestined to rule the world and unite all of Christianity under a single crown, to take a step closer to this destiny, you must cast down His Holiness as the viper he is, and return to the time of Charlemagne, where you are the Vicar of the Pope, and His Holiness only holds spiritual powers.”

A frown creased the king’s face. “Would it not be counterproductive, pour more fuel on Martin Luther’s Protestant movement?”

“No at all, quite to the contrary,” came the quick assurance. “The sitting Pope is too motivated to keep his own family in power in Florence and blind to the danger of the Protestant movement, in a time where the authority of and trust in the Church is at an all-time low. His league with France and the other Italian princes only increases your difficulties in dealing with the Protestant movement and the German princes. My emperor, you must end His Holiness’s anti-Imperial policy as quickly as possible.”

King Charles gave a small nod “Thank you. Let us return to assist in the preparations of the feast that our hosts have so graciously arranged.”

This was not necessarily the path he had wanted to pursue, but such conspiracy could not go unpunished. His rule would not be questioned, not by the Italians, not by the French, and not by the Pope.

If His Holiness wanted war, then so be it.

To be continued in:

**Archbishop Roma**


	5. Archbishop Roma

**Caserma di Alviano, Campagna, Rome, 1526**

On his horse, Commander Röist rode through Campagna, in the Roman countryside, a landscape dotted with farmlands and sparse settlements. The few ruins scattered through the countryside were a clear symbol of the diminishing greatness of Rome. It was here, far away from the busy life of Rome, in an anonymous suit of armour with a dark gambeson and a hood covering his face, Kasper Röist sought out the local lair of the Venatores.

He eventually steered his horse towards the headquarters of the local mercenary’s guild. The castle grounds seemed to be empty, but it did not bother the commander. Italy was, after all, in a war, once again, and many of the mercenaries had been deployed to Lombardy in an attempt to seize the area from Imperial control. He left his horse at the stable, went across the grounds, and entered the barracks.

His contact sat at a table inside, a hand-held firearm was pointed towards Röist. Unsurprisingly, more firearms were aimed at his back and head. Despite the tense situation, he was calm, though those around him may have described him as aloof.

“Where did you marry your first wife?” the contact asked at random, the question picked from a list of prepared questions.

“I married Anna Meyer von Knonau in August 1500 at Saint Peter’s church in Zürich.” Commander Röist answered.

“Very good,” the contact said, placing his firearm to the side and indicating the nearby chair across the table. “Please sit, Cacciatore Röist.”

Commander Röist walked across the room and sat in the appointed chair. Two other Venatores followed him in and took positions at the door. “Consigliere Ariosto,” Roist finally greeted his superior.

“In your latest report, you stated that you need reinforcements of Paladins,” Consigliere Ariosto, the Regional Overseer of the Venatores, began, getting directly to business. “Why?”

“In the past half year, both we and Archbishop Roma attempted to recruit Ansaldo,” Röist answered. “Due to his sense of justice and truth-seeking mindset, he has yet to make a decision.”

“The warlock under foolish Papal protection?” Ariosto interrupted; his face scrunched in subdued annoyance.

“Yes, Ansaldo Leonardo de Caramanica of the Dominican Order and fourth child of Count Leonardo de Caramanica. However, we have suspected for some time that our cover was breached,” the commander continued. “It was confirmed last week, in a confrontation with the Archbishop.”

A nod. “I assume you have taken all measures to avoid detection?”

“Indeed, but Ansaldo completely lacks subtlety. Sooner or later, he would have led the Archbishop to us.”

Ariosto grunted. “This is not something we can change. What was his previous identity, before he became Archbishop Roma de Burattinaio?”

“Episcopo Borgia,” Röist recounted. “Appointed as Cardinal by his grandfather, the late Pope Alexander VI, born Rodrigo Borgia, just shortly before his death. We believe he was recruited and educated by the previous Archbishop Roma.”

Ariosto smirked. “I find it amusing that his name means bishop in Spanish. Quite obvious in hindsight. Why do you need reinforcements? It seems you have handled it well so far.”

“My task has changed. I require reinforcements to remove the wretch.”

“Denied,” Ariosto answered with a shake of his head. “The Paladins here are occupied with another mission, and will not be available for another year, at the very least.”

Röist frowned. “Surely, taking out the Archbishop is the highest priority?”

“It would be, if we had the Paladins to spare. Rising Cult activities across Europe for the last ten years, religious unrest across all of Europe, and our own manpower shortages have made that difficult. Our Persian friends have been forthcoming with a warning, as well. Uncharacteristically so.” Ariosto withdrew a dagger, offering it blade first to Röist. “They have been generous in supplying gifts. Their method of warning us to beware of something to come.”

“Hallows _?_ ” Röist inspected the pattern. “The color is wrong, the pattern is off, too, given they have no sacred water to reforge or dilute the metal. This cannot be an alloy - What am I looking at? Lesser Hallows?”

Ariosto took the dagger back. “The product of the labor of Damascan smiths. Damascus steel, our friends call it. It serves the task well. Far superior to common steels. They’ve sent enough to outfit a few Packs. You will receive your share.”

There was a brief pause. “They have also sent us a direct warning. The Cult has consolidated power in the Middle East. A new Archbishop has arisen. He has yet to claim a name, but they warn us that he might claim the title of Archbishop Tunisia.”

Röist remembered some hearsay from the past few months, though he had dismissed it at the time. He saw now that he had made a mistake, saying. “There are rumors of a Tunisian pirate lord recently arisen to power, extraordinarily quickly. A good candidate for Archbishop.”

“The connection is too timely. No doubt that is how our friends are aware,“ he paused and leafed through the papers on the table. “We spotted three Templars supporting the rebels at the Knights’ Revolt three years ago, and once more at the larger Peasant’s War last year. We have confirmed that they are real and are not making an effort to hide themselves.”

“Bait. Do they think us fools?” Röist queried with a snort. “This is how they announce their return? With a clear trap? They clearly have not learned their lesson. A dagger in the dark is worth ten swords in the day.”

Ariosto nodded once. “They will be handled in due time, but they have changed.”

He slid a parchment across the table, which Röist picked up. It was a drawing of an emblem. A pyramid with a flat top under a sun-disc emitting fourteen rays, each tipped with a grasping hand. The pyramid was flanked by pillars, emblazoned with ancient egyptian Hieroglyphs, and bore a cross tipped with a noose at its center.

“According to our sources, they now call themselves the Illuminated.” Ariosto continued. “We believe they are behind the success of Martin Luther’s Protestant movement. Of course, given the Cult thrived in the chaos, we believe they took measures to embed agents in the movement as well. This takes a toll on our resources and our Paladins, and the other Wolves are bogged down combating these threats.”

Commander Röist frowned at Ariosto. “The Archbishop is aware of us, and we cannot combat him directly without aid. Indecision will be our demise. We must either retreat or hide.”

Ariosto’s features hardened at that. “We have no Paladins to spare, but we can offer this.” Another Venatore laid a set of true Hallows plate armor on the table alongside a sheathed blade and a poleaxe.

“Armor?” Röist slowly mouthed. “Surely you’re not implying what I think you are.”

“I am,” Ariosto said gravely. “You will have to find someone worthy of the honor, else I have nothing to give you.”

Röist swallowed his anger. “Consigliere,” he said instead. “What you ask is difficult in these circumstances.”

“Adapt, wolf.” Ariosto stated firmly. “Every burden is an opportunity, and we are both hunter and hunted. Make this burden an opportunity.”

Röist estimated the time he had, mind reeling as the lack of a Paladin settled in. He would have to fill the void, seek a candidate, and fill them in, all the while maintaining security. 

The Consigliere nodded to one of the Venatores at the door to open the door. “There is one more matter of note, Commander Röist.” He slipped a bottle of poison across the table. “A gift, this time from the Grandmaster.”

“Grail Poison.” He knew the fluid intimately. “For?”

“All possible circumstances must be arranged for,” the Consigliere said. “If you are in a position to lose the warlock, do what must be done. The enemy cannot be allowed another asset.” 

Röist bowed his head. “As you command.”

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome, 1526**

The canvas was white, unblemished, unsoiled. The colour of the undefined and unquestioned. He did not know what it was, but he knew what it could be. He felt giddy for a second, the lack of knowledge was freedom, and he was free to define it.

Line by line, stroke by stroke. A touch of white upon the horizon, blue and gold for the sun and sky. His hands moved, but he wasn’t in control. Not fully. His mind thought, but there was no goal to dictate its terms. The shapes gathered on the canvas, ideas taking form, solidifying into coherence.

After seemingly no time at all, two men stood on a cliff overlooking the abyss. One had his face turned away from the second. His hand reached towards the other, as if keeping the man at arm’s length. The second one stood behind with open arms as if tempting the first with an invitation, his blackened wings spread across the horizon.

He frowned at the painting. He felt for the man, a feeling Ansaldo was very much familiar with. Struggle. Temptation. The desire to be _left alone_ to do what he loved, to do what he cherished doing. 

“I can’t see the enjoyment in this, it takes far too long for me,” a voice noted from beside him. 

Ansaldo started, the brush flying backwards out of his hand. He turned around, toward the source - a young man in full plate armor, a series of weights tied to his legs and arms. He seemed unperturbed, despite the sweat fountaining off of his brows. His helmet was tied to his waist by a belt.

With casual grace, he caught Ansaldo’s flying brush. “It seems quite a dull and confusing process, if I am to be honest,” the young man said. “But I also do see the appeal. The sight of it is…” He smiled. “Enthralling.”

“I..uh. Yes?” Ansaldo tried to think of something to say. He came up blank.

“Ah. Not a people person?” The young man nodded to himself as he handed the brush back to the confused friar. “My brothers tell me I can speak enough for seven. You wouldn’t mind me filling the silence? No? Excellent. I must ask, why this odd shade of blue here?”

Ansaldo accepted the brush as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to spit something out. “Yes,” was the answer he decided on, having no other words that would be as coherent among his scattered wits.

“Yes, for the silence or yes for filling the silence or yes to my question?” came the immediate question.

“Yes.” he decided on again, still so unsure of how to deal with this as his wits slowly came back to him. 

“Leonheart!” He saw a young Sister rush up, grabbing the man by the ear. “Apologies Friar, Ser Leonheart can be-” She pulled harder on his ear. “A handful.”

“Ow,” he muttered without any real emotions. “I am in terrible pain.”

She glared at him. “You promised to help me teach the younger kids.”

“I did.” Leonheart nodded. “Then I realized that I am a terrible role model. With such a valid excuse, I decided not to corrupt the next generation.”

“Leon.” Her tone softened. “Knights aren’t supposed to lie.”

Ansaldo nodded in agreement, at once confused and amused. 

“Sister Anna, such an accusation is abhorrent,” Leonheart replied. “I tell only earnest truth-”

She pulled on his ear.

“-Mercy?”

“Confess,” she hissed. 

He winced. “-Did some work for the orphanage. It took longer than I expected.”

Sister Anna stopped pulling on his ear, sighing. “And like an overgrown child, you decided to hide from me here.”

Leonheart turned to Ansaldo, eyes begging for help. “I found a friend. I like friends. Aren’t you a friend, friend?”

“Friend?” Ansaldo asked back. Feeling something strange.

“Leon!” She admonished him. 

“I mean-” he slowly made a vague gesture with his hands. “Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet. Right, friend?”

Ansaldo snorted softly at the young man’s pleading eyes, then chuckled. Somehow, before he knew it, he was laughing, doubling over as the full situation hit him. His heart felt odd, and tears clouded his vision. He laughed. He laughed until his lungs hurt. When his vision cleared, he saw Sister Anna looking at him with concern.

“Are you...okay, Friar?”

“Ansaldo,” he finally said with a smile. “My name is Ansaldo. And yes, you are a friend.”

Leonheart gave a wide, goofy, relieved smile. “See? See!”

Sister Anna shook her head, eyes crinkling in amusement. “No, I don’t, you overgrown child.”

“I see.” Ansaldo turned back to his painting. “Isn’t that enough, Sister Anna?”

“Don’t encourage him!” She raised her voice in mock admonishment. “He’ll become somehow _more_ insufferable.”

“I will have you know I took on a squire,” He replied, smugly. 

For a moment, Ansaldo turned his head towards Leon. “A squire?”

“Yes...a...squire…” Leonheart paused. 

Sister Anna groaned. “You forgot about Marcello, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I told him to run until he dropped. He’ll be fine.”

“That is... not how training is typically conducted,” Ansaldo said. 

Leonheart smiled softly. “No, not at all. Are you well read on the body, Friar?”

“My father was kind enough to have me taught reading and writing, and even purchased books from time to time,” he recollected. “He made no shortage of kindness to me, even had me taught in swordsmanship and sponsored my education to university.”

“Are you his second child?” Sister Anna asked.

Ansaldo remembered his father’s smile. “Fourth.”

“Ah,” she said. “He must be a good man.”

“He is,” Ansaldo agreed. 

“What is your full name, Friar Ansaldo?” Leonheart wondered.

“Ansaldo Leonardo de Caramanica. And you?” He asked back.

“I don’t know.” He smiled softly. “I was raised by an errant knight. He found me abandoned. Unwanted.”

“Leon,” she said softly.

“Marcello! Yes! The harder one trains in breathing endurance, the more he can withstand exhaustion.” Leonheart snapped his fingers, tone dimming, much as he tried to hide it. “The faster, harder, and quicker, the better. Endurance is the key. Without it, a knight is a puffing fool.”

“Ah, and that’s why you’ve left Marcello on his own?” Sister Anna chimed in, too cheerfully. “How clever.”

“Yes, indeed.” Leonheart rubbed the back of his head. “I did not forget about Marcello. No.”

“You are a terrible knight,” Sister Anna complained.

Ansaldo smiled, softly, happily. “He could be worse.” 

With a sweep of his hand, the brushes and strokes gave life to the canvas. It was bright, brighter than it had been. From memory and with inspiration, he made the image come to form.

“I could be worse,” Leonheart agreed. “But I aspire to be someone worth looking up to, despite my flaws, to be wanted.”

“Oh, Leon. Stop trying to charm us into forgiveness.” Sister Anna shook her head. “Poor Marcello has to deal with you. I have to deal with you. And now you drag Friar Ansaldo into this?”

Ansaldo looked up at the stars coming to view. Night had fallen, and he had barely noticed. “I like it,” he said quietly. 

Leonheart glanced at him. “Apologies, I didn’t quite hear.”

With a wider than he expected smile, Ansaldo looked at him. “I’m fine. If it’s like this, I’m fine dealing with it.”

Sister Anna smiled back. “Leon, stop charming people.”

The young man scoffed, though he, too, was possessed of a smile.

In the shadows of a tree, Röist’s piercing eyes watched with intensity, unnoticed and unlooked for by all.

***

**Siege Camp, Milan, Duchy of Milan, 1526**

The war had come to the Lombardian city on the Italian plain. Duke Francesso II Sforza of Milan had joined His Holiness and the other Italian princes in a desire to throw off the Imperial hegemony over them. Now, the Imperial army, under the command of Duke Charles III of Bourbon-Montpensier, had laid siege to the city.

“Silence! Order! I will have order!” Duke Charles yelled over the heads of the Condottiero Captains. 

He let his eyes wander around the tent, waiting for the quarrelling to settle down, though, even when it did, the duke could still feel the tension in the air. Why they had placed the faithful Spanish with heretical German mercenaries, he could not comprehend, but it certainly made his position difficult.

If he had not known better, he would have presumed sabotage- 

**_Unfortunate circumstances, nothing more._ **

If he’d not known better, he would have cursed fate for being such a fickle whore.

“I have received a message from His Imperial Majesty,” he continued once he had the captains’ attention. 

He eyed the leaders of both factions. Strangely enough, both faction leaders within the Spanish-German mercenary companies shared the same black armour. Both of the black condottiero captains had been responsible for stirring up the friction between the Catholics and the Protestants.

**_Dutiful and orderly, inspiring nothing more, and little less._ **

Both of the black condottiero captains had been helpful, personally responsible for helping him organize the squabbling mercenaries. They had even been brokering peace between the Catholics and Protestants.

His head throbbed, hand reaching up to message it.

His eyes strayed to the two captains and discomfort rolled in. They were too orderly, their manner marching in formation to a heartbeat. Their movements reeked of action, of a thing born for violence waiting to be unleashed. It was almost a physical, drumming presence.

All other companies avoided them, disturbed by their manners. Perturbed by their proficiency and uniformity. The same armour, the same weapons, the same responses and behaviours they were-

**_Nothing worthy of note._ **

Nothing worthy of note.

The duke unrolled the paper, and the content almost made him sigh in relief. Supplies and silver were on the way to the underpaid mercenary army, finally. Some much-needed good news that would no doubt settle their concerns. He opened his mouth to speak, but an unbidden thought came to his mind.

**_The supplies and payment would not arrive. His Imperial Majesty asks you to find supplies and payment elsewhere._ **

_No. That was not what it said._ He gritted his teeth, feeling his head drum, drum, and beat to the tune of his heart.

**_There is no payment, there are no supplies. You must find them elsewhere._ **

At the same time, the Duke had been quite irritated with managing these mercenaries, and their endless demands. Men who cared about coin and payment, irrespective of their cause. A well of disgust grew within him, these men didn’t serve the generosity of the King. They could make do on their own, scrounging like the rats they were. 

Rats survived on little, and so would they.

**_Scourges deserved to be scorned._ **

Scourges deserved to be scorned.

He tempered his irritation. “The supplies and payment have yet to arrive,” he announced, to the visible disappointment and irritation on the faces of the assembled captains. A low mutter started to spread and words like mutiny appeared here and there. 

He saw the two captains walk around, spreading whispers.

**_Keeping order._ **

He saw the two captains walk around, keeping order.

His headache began to worse, began screaming. If he did not do something, the goddamned mercenaries would, at best, leave the army and hand the victory to the Leaguean force, and, at worst, pillage Milan for its riches. He needed to move fast and solve this payment issue, as both the Venetian and His Holiness’ armies were not far away.

“Calm down!” he roared. “Tomorrow I will reach out to the Duke of Milan for ransom and I promise this will cover the payment you are due for your services.”

Thankfully, the Duke of Milan chose to surrender himself to the Imperial forces the next day, and paid a ransom of one month's wages, in return for saving the starving city from the unrestful mercenaries, rather than wait for the reinforcements. However, the payment was far less than what the mercenaries were promised.

The two captains smiled; teeth bared in mockery.

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome, 1526**

Ansaldo’s hand was shaking as he applied the finishing touches to the carvas. Strangely enough, the cold blue sky looked similar to what he had seen in the abyss - a deep ocean blue, as though it was underwater. He let his brush hang over the color plate as he carefully looked for flaws on the carvas, demanding perfection from himself. He wanted it to express his deepest feelings, his own temptation of this power Cardinal Borgia had promised him.

“I see you are finished with the Temptation of Christ painting,” Cardinal Borgia said. “I must say, I appreciate it.”

**_A touch too dramatic, but fitting, I suppose. Fitting for the life you and I live, and the deaths we will die._ **

_Speak of the devil_ , he thought, turning to face the sound, while suppressing a burst of irritation.

“Yes, your Eminence. I am attempting to paint my own version of this Biblical narration. I am, however, not quite finished,” he responded to Cardinal Borgia. “Is there anything I can aid you with?” He tried to keep his tone neutral.

Cardinal Borgia smiled, a knowing one. “Ah, well,” he tittered softly, as if amused by the friar’s attempt, but seeing through it anyway. “No, not truly. Perhaps some company would be good. There is nothing quite as terrible as a man left alone with his thoughts.”

**_Or left to see the lies he’s surrounded himself with crumbling, shattering. You can already see it happening, the lie you call faith breaking in the face of revelation._ **

Ansaldo’s hand shook. “Yes...it’s...terrible.” His mouth jammed; words barely forced out. Heart shivering, painfully shuddering. 

**_Let go._** Borgia looked away; eyes soft. **_Let the lies die, they hold nothing of value. The ignorance of past men, the delusions of the powerful, giving ecstasy of unreality to cold reality, let them die. Free yourself of them._**

“Did..did you...ever believe?” Ansaldo gathered his courage.

Borgia leaned down, brushing his hands over a set of flowers. **_I did, then everything I loved was taken. My daughter, from a woman I did not marry, ravaged to death. My woman, kidnapped and killed. My father, murdered for petty revenge. My Holy Grandfather pursued powers in contrast to his duties as the Holy Father._**

Eyes of scorn glanced at Ansaldo. **_I saw an empty sky as I buried them all. Cold of comfort, empty of God. My Grandfather’s omnipotent Father was nowhere to be found. There was no comfort, no grace that led to salvation and a better path._ I _dug myself out of that dark pit._ I _moved on. There was no God, and there never will be._**

“When the devil...tempted…” Ansaldo’s tone wavered. It fell to silence. 

**_You know that the story never happened._** Borgia eyes narrowed. **_But let us play this game, let us play pretend. Why am I the devil? Because of a world that deludes itself? Because I dare strive for something more?_**

“How do you know you’re not living a lie?” he whispered, unsure of being unsure, and hating himself for it. 

**_Because I do not delude myself into kneeling and praying for help that will never come._** Borgia's words whispered back. **_I dare in spite of all the lies, and take truth in reason. I take the only thing that ever mattered: power. Power to make things correct._**

“It’s a cold world you live in,” Ansaldo spoke softly, his voice barely rising above the previous whisper. Somehow, he felt drained. Staring at the painting, he forced himself to continue. “Devoid of...devoid of heart.”

 ** _It’s a cold God you believe in._** Borgia replied, venomously. **_So powerful, yet unwilling and unable to save a single life. How devoid of heart._**

 _Was this how you felt?_ He asked the painting. It gave no answer.

“Why are you looking so glum?” Leonhart asked.

Ansaldo jumped out of his skin, brush flying and colour palette nearly shooting out of his hand. Leonhart caught both of them. He put them back into Ansaldo’s shaking hands, and smiled, white teeth glinting. 

“Ah, Ser-” the Cardinal started

“I don’t like you.” Leonheart replied. 

“I am-” 

“I do not care to know, nor wish to know, nor do I feel I ought to know.” Leonheart shivered. “I actually would prefer not to know you.”

Ansaldo stared at the recently arrived knight.

“If he’s the problem, ignore him. He gives me a bad feeling,” Leonheart stated, then turned his gaze to the other man and narrowed his eyes, searching his form and finding nothing but- oh. No. “A Cardinal? _You_ are a Cardinal??”

Borgia blinked, surprised that the man would go straight from insulting him to recognizing who he was…and then insulting him again. “I beg your pardon?”

“You remind me of something, and the last time I felt like this, Anna was exorcising a demon, Cardinal,” Leonheart said, his eyes now nearly slits as he searched Borgia’s face for any signs of demonic evil. “I don’t like it. Cardinals should not exude such a fell aura around them.”

Cardinal Borgia chuckled. “How rude. Knights should not exude such contempt for men of God - especially those whom they know nothing of.”

 ** _The impudence of fools never ceases to push boundaries._** The Cardinal commented to Ansaldo dryly. **_Though, some fools fit into their place better than others._**

Ansaldo felt his heartbeat, drumming, raging so loud in his chest he could barely breathe. “Ser Leonheart, how is Sister Anna?”

Leon took sidestep, Sister Anna right behind him. 

“Ahem.” Sister Anna cleared her throat. “Leon, do you know who you just accused of being a demon?”

“A Cardinal of the Church who is making me wonder if I should spray him with holy water, just to be sure he is what his robes say he is?” Leonheart stated more than he asked.

“Cardinal Borgia.”

Leonheart’s eyes grew wide. “Ah. That Cardinal. Didn’t I say I didn’t want to know him?”

“Yes. Ah.” Sister Anna groaned. “When will you ever _learn?_ Didn’t your mother ever teach you tact?”

“He gives me a bad feeling!” Leonheart defended himself, completely ignoring her question.

Anna’s stare was flat. “You are not a six year old.”

 ** _Worthless fools, idiots, and wastes of human flesh. Spending their days indulging in pointless meandering._** Borgia scoffed.

She turned to the Cardinal. “Apologies, Cardinal, Ser Leonheart was dropped on his head as a child, and suffers a grave mental disability because of it.”

“I am _beyond_ hurt,” Leonheart dryly remarked.

 ** _A tool,_** Borgia thought. **_If only it were ever to become a useful one._**

Borgia chuckled. “Forgiven, Sister, forgiven. Words cannot hurt. They only enlighten.”

Anna frowned. “Forgive me Cardinal, but you are wrong. Words hurt. Words mislead. Why, just the other day I was with Sister Maria, and she was reading from this black book.”

With a dull stare, Borgia waved her off. “Indeed, but my point is taken.”

“Well, no,” Anna continued, heedless of his dismissal. “This ill book was full of lies, and it wasn’t only lies, but ones laden with half-truths! Why, it shook her faith to the core!”

“Yes, yes. I see.” Borgia nodded sagely. “Yet are such books and words a test of conviction? A means to tell of the strength of faith, between true belief and faux repetition? If this sister had her faith so shaken before such clear lies, then it reflects more on her than the words themselves," his lips parted into a slight smile. "Ah, but those are matters of heavier discussion, not quite for gardens and paintings.”

Ansaldo swallowed the fear. “Half-truths?”

Borgia’s facial expression was carefully controlled, and his smile maintained without even a flicker of change. “The best lies are always filled with small truths.”

“Exactly,” Anna said, glaring out of the corner of her eyes at Leonheart. “Filled with these half-lies meant to guide you to ill places.”

His mouth spoke before he thought of it.

“How do I-” He hesitated, he struggled to put into words what he wanted to ask. Then it came to him.

Like a storm of divine lightning.

Like a string of light in the dark.

Like a hammer striking hot metal.

“How do I recognise them? These half lies?”

“Oh God,” Leonheart whimpered, eyes wide open. “You _didn’t_. Please. No. Take that back!”

Anna smiled pridefully. “Why, ask me!” She giggled. 

Borgia’s smile was tight and constrained. 

**_This games we play,_** he spoke. **_You seem prepared to add another player to it._**

Ansaldo’s smile was wide and open.

***

**Röist’s home, Rome, 1526**

Röist read the reports, every word making his brows crinkle in ever deepening annoyance. 

“My brave gallant knight,” his second wife said. Greeting Kapsar Röist with a playful smile, she leaned over his shoulder. “What has you in such a dour mood? ”

She left a piece of cinnamon bread dangling over his head. “You even forget to eat, dear.” 

Röist split his attention, between the dangling bread and the reports. His eyes drifted - up, to the bread, down - to the reports. Up. Down. He resisted the temptation.

Resist.

Must resist.

“I even baked it in sugar,” she tempted him, waving it over his nose. “And some spices too.” 

He sniffed.

He resisted. 

“I always win,” Elisabeth whispered into his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. “Always.”

The siren won, and the great wolf of the inquisition surrendered to her charm. He chomped on the piece of bread, to the sound of laughter from his wife. She placed a plate full of them on his desk, and he brushed aside the stack of missives.

He returned a smile to Elisabeth Klingler Röist. “Nothing much, nothing at all-” He stopped, noticing the missing missive. “You took the one I was reading.”

She played with it in between her fingers. “I did.” She placed it back on his desk, playfully batting her eyelashes at him. “I won’t press if you don’t want me to know.”

Röist opened it and gave it to her to read. 

Elisabeth put a hand on her mouth. “No. Lombardy has fallen to his Imperial Majesty?”

“Yes,” Röist said, his voice grim. “This conflict is reaching our doorstep. I did not wish to worry you with such matters.”

“I can leave,” she offered hesitantly. “I have relatives, they’ll be fine hosting me for the time. You wouldn’t have to worry.”

He closed his eyes. _Outside the reach of my wolves?_ He knew what would happen then. With his cover blown, there was only one conclusion. “No.”

“Are you...certain?” She reached for his hand, soft, lithe fingers locking with his. “I know how you’ve been the last several days. You’re always so...tense and afraid for me, lately.”

“You’ll be safer where I can see you.” He played with her hand.

 _Where I can protect you._ He thought.

“Do not worry too much about the war. Milan may be lost, but we still have Venice, Genoa, Florence, and France on our side,” he said, taking the letter back from her. “The Imperial forces under command of Duke Francesco are underpaid, underfed, and under-equipped.”

Elisabeth hesitated. “I heard of what happened. With the imperial forces that attacked last week.”

He exhaled, hiding his annoyance with a soft smile. “What reached your ears?”

“I heard they almost took over the city,” she said, unsure. “I didn’t think much of the gunfire, I didn’t think it so bad. But to almost take over the city? With an army so near?”

He couldn’t tell her what those Imperial forces truly were. He himself was still thinking about it, questioning what Archbishop Roma was planning with such an attack. He could not see the aim, the goal, the profit of wasting three hundred and fifty lives in a pointless attack.

Röist was missing something, and he could not find it, no matter how hard he looked. 

“The men were too busy drinking,” he grunted. “I’ve had to make them shape up, filter the wheat from the chaff.”

Relief spread across her features; a coy smile played on her lips. “A few too fat for their breastplates?”

“Several,” he grumbled. He paused, staring at the almost finished bread. “The spices?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Elisabeth asked, playing with a lock of hair. “I thought you did.”

“A gift from one of your friends?” He asked her.

She stared at him oddly. “No, from yours.”

He racked his head. “Mine?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head, lovely eyes confused. “A nice man Persian man said he knew you, gave me a full basket of them. Said he and his friends would visit soon? Even asked you to prepare?” Memory flashed across her eyes. “I almost forgot!” She took out a wrapped box. “He said this was yours to open!”

Excitement shone in her eyes. “Open it!” She all but commanded. 

He laughed. “Fine, fine.” He took the box, laying it to his desk and opening it. 

“Friends, is it.” Röist mumbled, picking up the Damascus steel dagger. The same pattern he knew, except there was more to it.

A symbol was engraved at the top of the blade. A symbol he had seen before. A Persian Eagle with open wings and above it, another set of symbols from left to right: halfmoon, star, and dagger.

“You don’t seem happy?” She asked. “I don’t know much about blades, but this one looks fine. Even ornamented.”

He would have been happy, if he did not know this to be the symbol of a Master Assassin. This was a message, another omen, and a far less subtle one, at that. They were being warned. Something was coming. Something dreadful enough for a _Master Assassin_ to personally address him. 

“Is everything fine, beloved?” his wife gently asked.

He met her eyes and filled his voice with as much conviction as he could muster. “Everything will be.” 

***

**The Gardens, Vatican, Rome, 1526**

As Anna passed under the arch in the middle of the Garden, she turned to look at Cardinal Borgia. “I profusely apologize for the knight’s terrible behaviour, Cardinal. He means well but knows nothing of tact. None of my attempts at making him learn seem to have accomplished anything.”

The Cardinal waved a hand. “All is forgiven, Sister. Not even the most gifted and wise of us can keep ourselves from speaking as the knight did. A flaw that God has not seen fit to correct, or perhaps has kept.” Borgia laughed. “What a world it would be if it were flawless, would it not?”

 ** _A world of prosperity,_** Borgia’s eyes were locked on Ansaldo. **_Where the weak sycophants and tyrannical are crushed. Where men live, possessed by purpose unquestionably sublime._**

Ansaldo took out a new canvas. Closing his eyes, feeling his nerves. _When the devil comes to tempt man,_ he thought, _what else is it but a feat of faith to stay true to God’s path?_ He opened them, meeting the unblemished white canvas.

He had to meet the onslaught.

He had to break the tide.

He had to, he needed to _, everything_ in him demanded it. Like a starving man offered a grain, tantalized, made to see the thinnest thread of hope. The thinnest bite, the thinnest thread, the tiniest hope, and he couldn’t dare to let go.

Ansaldo **_felt_** Borgia’s annoyance. Almost as if it were his own.

The annoyance turned to quiet contemplation. **_The Temptation of Christ, replaced with a white canvas. What will you draw now, Ansaldo Leonardo de Caramanica? What shape will you make on that undefined, unblemished canvas?_**

With his own quiet contemplation, he replied. **_The Salvation of the Warlock._** He made a small smile. **_Whatever that salvation may be, whatever form, shape, colour, creed, and dogma. Episcopo Cesare Borgia._** He glanced towards Anna. **_Do you fear salvation?_**

Borgia looked up at the clear sky, unclouded, undimmed. “It's a beautiful day today, isn’t it Sister Anna?” His tone low, voice lacking his bombast and arrogance. “It’s a nice day. I couldn’t have picked a better day.”

 ** _Afraid of salvation?_** Borgia replied. **_There is nothing to fear, nothing but the deep dark._**

 ** _No, there is._** Ansaldo sharpened his brush, with his whole body locked and rooted to this spot, to this here and now. He slipped his binds, bypassing his fears. **_Being wrong. Lying to yourself, living a lie. You fear it, you are terrified of it. To be wrong? To be false? To be ill of heart?_**

He met the devil’s eyes.

The devil smiled.

 ** _You cannot bear it,_** Ansaldo continued. **_It’s not my power you’re after, not for you, not simply. It’s proof of your righteousness, validation and vindication for the ends you will reach, and the means you choose._**

“My God.” Anna smiled, soft breeze making her spread her arms in welcome. She spun around, slowly. Letting it wash over her. “It is a beautiful day. God’s pleasure making itself known, wouldn’t you say Cardinal?”

Borgia nodded, slowly, raising his hand, letting small grains of dirt fall from it. “Sister Anna, have you ever had a moment where you looked back at all the choices you made, and ask, earnestly and quietly, if you’d make them again?”

“Plenty of those moments.” Anna snorted, glancing at Leonheart. “Usually, yes, but some of them? No.”

Leonheart raised an eyebrow at Anna’s reply, but made no comment, keeping his mouth shut. 

**_You think I’m misleading you?_** Borgia asked. **_The villain of the story, lying and cheating and betraying and misguiding?_**

Ansaldo met him back. **_I think you are misguided and trying to convince yourself._**

 ** _No,_** he said quietly, but the word rang in Ansaldo’s skull. **_I am saving you. Giving you a chance to be someone beyond awe, beyond power, beyond good and evil. I am not making an exchange. I’m offering a gift. To remake the canvas of the world in your image. I do not fear salvation, I offer it._**

 ** _My image?_** Ansaldo asked. **_Or the warped reflection you are guiding me towards?_**

“Sister Anna, I’ve had doubts of late,” Ansaldo said, and he felt Borgia laugh. Laugh the laughter of a gladiator thrown to the ring. “You seem knowledgeable of these matters.”

 ** _To salvation._** Borgia said, a toast unspoken.

Ansado spoke in return. **_To salvation._**

“I’ve been wondering, Sister, how do we know good from evil?” He asked.

 ** _I offer no apologies for slaying the champion sent against me,_** Borgia said, his tone a sibilant declaration. **_This is the ring, and I will be your gladiator, warlock._**

Ansaldo replied with genuine honesty. **_I accept, and I watch with intent._**

“Of all the damned questions,” Leonheart groaned. “Please, Ansaldo, pick something interesting like-”

In one fluid motion, Anna stuffed a flower down Leonheart’s mouth. He whined like an overgrown puppy as he tried to dig the flower out between bouts of coughing. “I’m incredibly glad you asked, friar.”

 _Why?_ Leonheart’s eyes seemed to beg. _Why!?_

Ansaldo did not notice it, he could not. His gaze was locked, trapped and entrapped in Borgia’s own locked gaze. Both of them felt the weight of this moment as it bore down, pressed down, _stomped_ down on them. 

“God is good,” she said, her tone one a teacher might use with an ignorant child. “And the devil is evil. The two entities never change, and the actions inherent to them never change. God creates, sanctifies, purifies. He makes great works and punishes great injustice. The devil corrupts, twists, warps and makes ill of things, until they themselves believe they are righteous.”

 ** _And who defines God and Devil, if not Man and Woman?_** Borgia asked. **_Hallowed and profane mirror images made for us to cower in their comforting shade._**

“Yet is Ser Leonheart not a knight?” Borgia smiled. “Day in, day out, he trains to kill. Not to kill on direct heavenly command, but on the orders of flawed men, susceptible to the devil’s perfidious touch. Is he then not devilish? How many wars are waged over little more than gold, farms, and thrones?”

 ** _There is nothing of true good, or true evil. Merely men giving themselves and their enemies labels._** Borgia plucked a flower, raising it up and letting it scatter to the wind. **_Only power in its forms remains, and the hunger it inspires. All actions of true significance bear no morality, only power, in litany of intersecting forms._**

Anna hesitated. “Well, it’s-”

Ansaldo intervened. “As you say, Cardinal, man is a twisted beast that corrupts all that it encounters in our world.” He turned to the Sister. “But would you say that it is only God’s touch that has saved humanity?”

Anna looked at him oddly, uncomprehending.

“How do we know that what is Godly, and what is Ungodly?” Ansaldo clarified. 

**_Notice now how she will define it, how she gives away the facade and veil, letting the strings show free,_** Borgia stated, the words chilling and sharp. 

“That is why we have revelation.” She said. “It reveals transcendent truths, and, by reason and revelation and our hearts, we find a path of godliness through sin.”

 ** _And who wrote those texts?_** Came the dagger. **_Men. Men of fallible, ever changing morality. Truth cannot be that which changes, which erodes. That which changes cannot be immortal truth, and morality changes. Changes so swiftly with the ages._**

Borgia tilted his head. “Godliness through sin, pain, and loss. If I am not mistaken, you were a rumored woman of ill repute, were you not? Why were you, a sullied woman, allowed into our grand Church when you did not follow God’s commandments?”

Anna recoiled as if she were struck. Her eyes were wide, and tears were collecting in them. “Harsh words, Cardinal. I...Harsh words.”

Fire, boody, raging fire, burned in Leonheart’s eyes. “I prithee be careful, Cardinal. Words spoken can rarely be taken back.”

“Am I wrong?” Borgia asked without emotion. “No, I am showcasing the malleability of good and evil. Was it truly evil for you to feed yourself by the means you had? Is it evil for any other woman to do so?” 

“It is sinful.” Anna said quietly. 

Leonheart was quiet at that.

 ** _Losing control?_** Ansaldo asked, tone biting. **_Resorting to shaming a woman of sins she was forgiven for? How lowly of a grown man, rife with wisdom and experience._**

 ** _You sent a champion, one who dares speak of morality._** Borgia replied, ever-calm. **_This is the gladiator’s ring, here, there shall be no mercy. And you? You have invited her._**

“I was forgiven for such actions upon a decade of service in repentance, Cardinal,” the Sister replied after collecting herself. “Surely you know of this.”

“Yet you accuse those who were in the same position as you of devilishness.” Borgia’s tone was calm, yet acrid. “I cannot in good heart agree to that assessment, Sister Anna, you, yourself, are testament to this.”

**_A testament to that which does not change, which does not move. Which does not erode. Power. The will to power. The will to become more powerful. She sold her body, and, in return, she survived to grow powerful._ **

“Sister Anna,” Ansaldo intervened, tone earnestly. “Do you believe that those who do what they must out of need are truly devilish?”

“Good and evil are a measurement, a path to the love of the Father,” Anna said, hands clenched tightly at her sides to keep from gritting her teeth instead. “They give us the courage to suffer, to be able to understand that we seek that eternal reservoir of love and care the Lord has promised to his faithful.”

The Cardinal’s face remained still; his lips pursed. “But that requires faith in the Lord, dear Sister, and that requires guidance.” he said, playing with the grass around his hands. “The guidance of us, of mortal men with all our flaws. Doesn’t that lead to flawed guidance, at times?”

**_Hear, and listen close, Warlock Ansaldo. Power is true, and it does not change. Its patterns are revealed in history. They give our lives hints of meaning, morsels of truth. She herself sees those hints, but she cannot grasp the picture._ **

Anna smiled. “It can, but I trust in the Lord to give us guidance to steer the sheep in the right direction, Cardinal. Do you not see? Good guidance is of the Lord, whereas evil guidance is of the enemy. I hold faith, and faith holds me. And you?”

“I trust my mind.” Cardinal Borgia gave her a lovely smile. “Reason and logic have guided me, they’ve shown me and delighted me. You yourself delight in the same joy.”

**_Faith is a lie. To seek it, to court it is to be blind. The pattern of life itself reveals that to be true, and, as we seek and search, we find something higher than faith: reason, and reason shows life to be absurd._ **

“However, I shall ask this to be absolutely certain of your standing in this matter: if you were requested to give guidance, would you give it? Such as you are, with no additional wisdom or experience. Would you do it?”

**_Reason. In the face of the storm of madness we call our lives. Reason, to see that infinite unchanging pattern. We, you, her, all of us. We are all meaningless, but power? The power we make? The structures and strictures of it?_ **

Anna hesitated. “If I can.”

**_Reason. It reveals all to those that follow it, it shows, it speaks. And what wondrously terrible image it gives. When you die, Ansaldo, what power will you leave? What power shall you pass on into history?_ **

**_I do not know,_** he answered honestly. 

**_Then you live for naught, for nothing. You will die for nothing except some foolish ideals._ **

“We all do what we can, Sister Anna.” Cardinal Borgia clapped dirt off of his hands. “But we can only do so much, and to only hold to faith? I find that to be...fickle. Too fickle for my heart.”

Anna breathed out, exhaling. “It’s not fickle, Cardinal. It is what everyone has to do, what you and I must do. We live finite lives, with finite comprehension, with finite resources, and finite intellects, we could not possibly know everything. We have to have faith; we must take faith.”

“Right and wrong.” She sat down, seeming to be somewhere far, far away. “To find good and evil, we must take a leap of faith in the eternal word.”

 ** _Good and evil? Right and wrong? No,_** he hissed, his voice ice. **_All you have is_ fiction _. A worthless idol of ignorant men of the past with no reason, who had no logic. Those who stay in power are only putting forth the existence of a jealous entity that is proud of its servants, a petty, unjust, unforgiving, controlling abomination. A vindictive and bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser that called on its “chosen people” to raze entire civilizations just so they could have a land to call their own._**

**_You say this “God” is a benevolent, caring being that is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent? Nay, friar, this being is a monster, ruthless in its methods, one that is forever apathetic to our woes._ **

He paused, realizing what he had told Ansaldo, but unable to retract it. The raw emotion, the sheer fury, the zealotry, and self-righteousness. The moral outrage. The certainty of knowledge, even when he could not possibly know perfectly.

Ansaldo stared, feeling the cogs of his thoughts whir. An idea, thunderous and bellowing, striking with lighting at the Cardinal’s slip.

 ** _Faith,_** Ansaldo mind reeled. ** _You are also walking on faith. You are also living by faith. You are also walking not by sight, but by faith._**

Borgia froze, then a beat of anger glimmered. **_Faith is for fools; faith is for the blind. I walk by truth, I see by mind, and I offer-_**

 ** _Faith,_** Ansaldo said, smile breaking out across his face. He smiled at Anna. **_You are offering me a twisted, malevolent leap of faith._**

“Faith that we are correct is a reasoned one, purely holding onto faith without reasoning can be seen as ignorance,” Borgia said, slow, noticeably thinking. “The Church was built as it was to follow the command of faith, to guide into faith, and to lead into faith. Not reason, but faith.”

“Faith and reason are one and the same.” Anna tilted her head, looking at him. 

Leonheart’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting thoughts, Cardinal.”

 ** _I see you, Archbishop, I can see you now, and I cannot unsee you,_** Ansaldo said, his tone almost bursting with triumph. **_There is no beast of Heaven that can compare to a heretic of your calibre, Cardinal. A man so twisted by his sins that he cannot admit to it._**

Borgia froze, then anger beat across his mind, hot and heavy. **_I see more clearly than you ever will._**

 ** _You see like a blind man,_** Ansaldo replied. **_Uncertain of all but the dark. The duel has ended, Archbishop. The champion wins, the gladiator is defeated._**

His expression was constrained, face controlled, features seemingly turned to stone. But they could not hide the roiling anger, not from Ansaldo.

**_Not defeated, Ansaldo, merely brought to a draw._ **

“I believe the Cardinal truly has exhausted himself,” Ansaldo turned to the Sister and Leon, certain, commanding. “Such a man of the Church cannot teach with his wisdom locked away behind the veil of exhaustion.”

He could sense that Borgia was incensed, and it showed when he replied, his tone biting. “That will be unnecessary, Friar. Perhaps my soul is as tired as my body is, perhaps I’ve spoken ill today. But it was all in good faith.” 

Leonheart cracked his knuckles. “Are you sure? I’m perfectly willing to escort you to your rooms. With haste.”

“Leon!” Anna barked at him. “Apologies Friar, he gets defensive of me.”

“No harm done, none at all.” Cardinal Borgia said, turning on his heel. Brushing aside grass and dirt from his grab. Without pause, without turning back, with every step resounding with paced, controlled wrath, the Cardinal exited the gardens.

 ** _In the deep dark, when all light is snuffed,_** a voice rang in his skull. **_There, you shall drown, there, you shall end._**

Ansaldo replied. **_You’ve cast off the veneer, Archbishop Roma. Will you last the day, or will the twilight be the end for you?_**

As he turned the corner, Roma glanced back at the duo. That pair of foolish zealots that refused to see the truth of the Christian faith. He wrenched his gaze away from them, disgusted, and turned the corner. 

**_The end is coming,_** he all but declared. **_Then you will be made to choose...death or obedience. The deep dark waits for no one, not even a warlock with your skills._**

Ansaldo thought about it for a moment.

**_You had your chance, Archbishop. I’ll take mine._ **

***

**Coast of Abruzzo, Italy, 1527**

Exarch Auditore waited, tense and coiled. Beside him, his Templar guard nervously clutched the handles of their blades. He felt every moment, eyes peeled for the shadows, for every movement. The missive they had received was a subtle one.

Polite, bordering on threatening. 

Three rowboats made their way to the coast, and the men on them clambered down. Their forms and bodies hidden by grey and white robes; wooden masks painted white covered their faces. His templar guard leaned in. 

“Plate armor,” the knight said. “Sounds odd, far lighter than it should.”

The rumors were true, then. The Damascan smiths had truly done it, they’d seen a glimpse of the sacred truth within the Hallows metal and made something to resemble it. An impressive feat, worthy of respect.

First among the men was one with a red sash around his waist. The man bowed deeply and reached up. He took off his mask and smiled widely. “Exarch Auditore, a pleasure to meet face to face.”

“You speak fluently.” He appraised the man. 

The man inclined his head. “I speak many languages, as we all do. It is only right to speak a man’s tongue when you wish to put him to his eternal rest.”

Exarch Auditore counted their number. Too few, at most two per rowboat, when they could have easily fitted seven in one. “We give our respect and appreciation for your earnestness in dealing. We expected a cloak and dagger. This exchange was not anticipated.”

The master assassin laughed softly. “We find your noble aspiration admirable, worthy of being granted due respect.” His laugh stopped, and his eyes sharpened to daggers. “Though, we find your actions to be too...chaotic. You have left room for unwelcome actors to ply their craft.”

“The Cult will be handled within our domain.” Exarch Auditore stated, the full authority implied. “They are an immoral, despicable, and virulent disease. We see no value to their existence. We shall strike them from history like the vermin they are.”

The master assassin tilted his head. “Yet the Church must fall, even at such a steep price?”

“It must.” He replied. “Their holds over the faithful must be broken. For too long have they wielded heavenly sovereignty, as though they hold any right to it.”

A slowly, joyful nod. “How odd, we agree. Their actions have long been a profanity against the Maker of Heaven and Earth.”

“Then you have no quarrel with us.” He stated, meeting the assassin’s glance.

“You misunderstand.” The master assassin chuckled. “We welcome the Church being weakened. Their hypocrisy and sins offend us. We do not welcome their fall”.

“Then I, with full authority behind me, must, regretfully, bar you from passage.” Exarch Auditore spoke, his guards tense. “Interference is not welcome in our affairs, even if our purposes may align.”

The master assassin paused, eyes devouring him. Seeing him from every angle. “Exarch, allow me to make this as clear as I could. We have reached out in good faith. We had no need to. If you believe the worst has passed for your order, then allow me to dispose of such a notion.”

“However?” He asked.

The man smiled. “We shall make a compromise, as a show of our character. We will not interfere with your schism; we shall welcome it. However, the Church cannot fall. Our allies depend upon its resources, and it is those of ill character who leave their allies helpless. Understand this, we are not ill of character.”

“Your concern is not the Church, then.”

“We hold no sympathy for them, beyond those of the honest within them.” The master assassin replied. “We have seen their sins, and we will happily watch them make penance.”

“As recompense, then, allow me to make this offer.” Exarch Auditore said. “We will make up for the losses your allies take, with full interest implied. I believe this is agreeable to you?”

The master assassin bowed deeply. “Then I have news your masters will find agreeable.”

“Indeed?” He asked, genuinely surprised. 

“We know of your history,” the Master Assassin said. “We watch keenly, we know of the origins of your creed. From the ancient Pharaohs, to your betrayals at the hands of Constantine the Great and Pope Clement V. Your opposition to the corrupt seats of worldly authority has been admirable.”

“You know much.” He swallowed. Far more than they had given them credit to know.

“An elder of the order will soon come to visit.” The man smiled. It was chilling. “Would it be too much to ask for your order, in bonds of hospitality, to take him as a guest? Perhaps show him great sights in his old age?”

He paused, his eyes latching on Auditore’s. “We would understand if you find this to be...troublesome.”

“The Prima Illuminatus will be pleased to host such an esteemed guest.” He met the man’s eyes. “It will be our honor and pleasure to do so.”

He offered his hand.

The Master Assassin took it. “A pleasure to meet, Exarch Auditore. God has guided us upon a straight path.”

“Indeed,” Exarch Auditore replied. “If I may, who am I speaking to? A name will be helpful in referring to you.”

“I am Master Assassin Eagle, third of my title.” The man broke off the handshake. “My master passed on his title to me, as most worthy of his disciples.”

“Then let me not delay you.” He gestured behind him, and a templar brought forward the horses. “Duke Bourbon-Montpensier left Arezzo with his army a few days ago, heading towards Rome. I will send missives to my men; they will help your allies as much as they can. But you must make haste to make it in time.”

“And of the Cult?” Eagle asked. “We have heard of Archbishops, and the Monastery Guard, enough for two armies. We have not had sight to see the truth of this.”

“Worse,” he answered earnestly, worry clouding his voice. “We’ve not seen the Cult move so directly before. The Church will reel from this for decades to come. The Holy See will not be able to stop the schism.”

“Be careful, Exarch, that your arrogance does not become your downfall,” Eagle warned. “To use the Cult in such a manner treads thin lines. _Very thin lines._ ”

The merchant prince smiled. “Rest easy, my friend. We see those lines clearly. This is as much an opportunity for us to strike, as it is for you.”

“Then we hope to meet upon the fields of war.” Eagle raised his hand, and more assassins walked out of the water onto the coast. They threw aside the reeds they had used as breathing pipes, water seemingly sliding off of their robes. “May our paths intersect in peace.”

"May Aten light your path."

The Master Assassin climbed upon his horse, inclined his head, and turned his horse around. The assassins rode into the darkness, toward Rome.

***

**Outskirts of Rome, Afternoon, 5 May 1527**

**_Speak to your men._ **

The duke beheld his remaining army, camping outside the gate of Rome across the Tiber. The landsknechte had simply collapsed on the ground, deeply exhausted. The Spaniards had left the army months ago, unpaid and unwilling to suffer.

The black armoured mercenaries did not complain, fresh as they were. Ready as they were. Utterly uncaring and unaffected by the march. They made his army fearsome, in their stalwart, straight backed formations.

**_You do not remember us._ **

He was left with a ragged, angry horde staring at the city in the distance with hunger. Riled to a blood thirst that only beaten, humiliated, and exhausted men could feel. Even he could feel it now, burning in his blood like a disease, almost making him boil.

**_You do not think of us._ **

He cleared his throat and let his voice carry along across the siege camp.

**_You do not see us._ **

“Men! My soldiers! For too long we’ve starved. For too long have we been treated like wretches, not given our due of gold, fed like petty dogs, and made to beg for scraps as we march! No. More!” 

He slammed his fist into his breastplate. Over and over, until it carried like the disease he felt in his blood. Men banging on their shields. Men stomping their feet. The earth shook, trembling beneath their furore.

This strange disease.

**_But we remember you._ **

“We have only one path to take! Across the great river Tiber and into Rome itself! Let them pay. For every moment we have suffered, let them pay! For every breath in the cold, for every brother starved to death, let them pay!”

“Let. Them. Pay!” The army roared.

**_But we think of you._ **

This angry disease that made him furious.

“Look at them, fat in their ivory towers, scourging us like rats! Look at their glamorous cities. While _we_ scavenge to feed ourselves, _they_ stuff their faces, fat with indolence, overgrown with riches, while we become skeletons in our poverty.”

He pointed at the ancient walls of Rome.

**_We see you._ **

“With your beating hearts, with the courage inside your veins, you will scale these walls. Inside these walls, there are no more than three thousand infantry, men not used to pain, men impoverished of the courage to suffer. Within these walls that you must overcome is wealth _beyond measure_.”

“The corrupt Pope and his court of sycophants and hedonists, cardinals, prelates, lords, courtiers, merchants, and barons with their innumerable riches. Gold, and silver, and jewels, all ours! Ours to take as recompense!”

“But it is not adequate, not to the audacity of your souls to march with me! To your true nobility, I see your dirtied faces, and I see men of true blood. I see those of greater worth than fat emperors, of greater might than weak aristocrats cowering behind their walls!”

**_We watch you._ **

“Frauds, living to gather wealth. Cruel hypocrites, laughing as they pleasure themselves on our pain, and call themselves benevolent. Ill of piety and false of virtue, in that profane city, there are not men of equal measure to you.”

**_We hear you._ **

He looked up, and he felt his head scream in anger.

**_As you drown in the deep dark._ **

“My lords,” the Duke said. “Revenge for past and present injuries I present to you. _Rome,_ I give to you.” 

**_Where none will find you._ **

* * *

To be continued in:

**The Sack of Rome**


End file.
